Can I?

I don’t know if I can…

I’ve been planning for my service dog for the past 6 months and now I’m panicking.

Can I do this? Is this the right choice? Am I being selfish? Will Avery be okay? Do I have what it takes? Am I worthy? Will this be a crutch? Will it be worth it? Can I do this?

These questions…constantly swirling in my mind.

I’m terrified.

This dog could either be a beautiful thing or a horrible mistake. Or is there grey area?

Could it be hard but also worth it? Can I make mistakes but not fail? Will Avery be jealous but still be okay?

Am I doing the right thing? Will I ever know? Is this one of those moments where you say you only live once and take the plunge?

Or do you back out knowing logistically it’s a huge commitment?

How do I know which is the right choice?

Am I a bad person for doing this? And am I also a bad person if I back out of doing this?

Are all of these questions my wise mind or are they coming from my insecurities and fear?

The exhaustion, it’s real, it’s here…

I just want the questions, the doubts, the fears to go away…The anticipation is killing me.

A part of me wants to back out and waste away…ohh the anorexia is so appealing right now. She is calling my name and it sounds so sweet.

Can I do this? Should I do this?

Am I changing my life for the better or am I turning down a path of no return?

I’m exhausted…

 

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My Father: The Rapist

Dear Dad,

I’ve thought long and hard about what I would say to you if I had the chance or the courage… And I don’t know that I will ever send these words to you but maybe one day you’ll run across this letter online and discover the things I’ve wanted to tell you for years…

It’s January 11, 2017 and I’m sitting alone in my apartment that I worked my ass off to achieve by working two jobs and never giving up. I am where I am today because of me, because I have put in the work and fought tooth and nail for a life beyond the crap you gave me. You tried to bring me down, to ruin my life but I made a choice to never let that happen. You will never win. I am successful in my job and at school and I am surrounded by beautiful, loving people who are walking this journey with me.

You lose.

I remember, dad.

I remember the times you tied me to my plastic play slide in the basement so you could rape me. I remember when you would make me undress and take pictures of me in sexual poses. I remember when you threatened to do bad things to my sister if I didn’t comply. I remember you laughing in my face as I cried out in pain. I remember having a knife held to my throat so I wouldn’t move. I remember being pulled down the stairs by my ankles and being raped on the cold, hard tile floor of the kitchen. I remember the weight of your body on top of mine, unable to breathe. I remember your hot breath in my ear. I remember the grimace of pleasure on your face when you saw the fear in my eyes.

I remember.

You never got caught.. but one day the truth will come out and people will know who you really are. You are far too good at getting people to believe that you are a poor father who loves his family and was betrayed and hurt by lies. But one day…one day people will see that you are not who they think you are…

You say you love me but I don’t think you know what that really means..

You say you miss me but I don’t think it’s because you care..

Well I want to say that I do love you..because I know what that really means..and I do miss you.. because I care..People don’t seem to understand how that could possibly be after all you’ve done, but in the end, you are still my father. You still gave me hugs goodbye and came to my ballet recitals. You still played fun games with me and took me to dinner. You are my father…the only one I will ever have and because of that I love you. It’s so painful to think that I may never see you again in this lifetime..

And while all of that is true, it’s also true that I hate that you are my father..I hate who you are and what you’ve done. I hate the confusion you’ve caused me and the pain you’ve inflicted upon me. I hate the lies you’ve told and the games you’ve played with my head. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you…and I hope that I never see you again…

You’ll never see me graduate college or get hired at my dream job, you’ll never meet my husband or walk me down the aisle, you’ll never meet my kids or even know their names…

I hope you are okay..wherever you may be..and I hope you have a nice life…I really do..

I just need you to know I remember.

I remember, dad.

Goodbye.

 

 

 

 

Dear Younger Me…

My younger self is a part of me that I have always had a very hard time connecting with.

I feel like I don’t know that little girl, like she is some person in a far away land I have never met. Yet, she is how I have gotten to where I am today. She has been someone I have despised and hated for a long time. In my mind she is bad, dirty, naughty, selfish, and a liar. I think all these things of her and yet I’m not even sure what she looked like.

I often see young children in public and wonder how old they are because for some reason, my ability to discern ages of children is very skewed. I see a 2-year-old and think they are 4 or I see a 9-year-old and think they are 12. The most plausible explanation I can conjure up is that because I had to grow up so fast when I was little, I never saw myself as a young child and, therefore, can’t discern ages of other children either because to me they all look older than they are.

Any who…my current work lies in finding the key to unlock the cage in which my younger self is trapped. How do I do this? Where do I even begin?

I don’t have the answers yet but if I ever want to really heal the inner workings of who I am I must allow my little girl to have a voice, to be seen, and to be heard by others, but more importantly by me…

Utter Exhaustion

I lie propped up in bed where I’m supposed to be doing homework.

I have reached a place of utter exhaustion. Fighting for your life is exhausting. Especially when it seems the world is fighting against you.

About a little over a month ago I reached a point of giving up. I fell captive to anorexia with hopeless defeat. I plummeted in a matter of a single day. For about 3 weeks I ate little to nothing and starting purging when I felt I’d eaten “too much”. I quickly lost control. My hair started falling out and my blood pressure dropped to 84/51. I lost xx pounds in only a couple weeks. I was weak, I was freezing cold, I was dizzy, and exhausted. I could no longer think clearly. I was a mess.

In the beginning stages of my eating disorder I could go months doing what I can only maintain now for a couple weeks before my body gives out.

I guess after years of abuse, one’s body simply can’t handle what it used to.

I’m fighting to get back on track. I’m eating. I’m not purging.

And it fucking sucks.

All of the reasons I started using behaviors again are slapping me in the face and knocking the wind out of me.

As hard as I try, I feel like I’m fighting again the world.

I’m completely and utterly exhausted. And tonight, the 11 bottles of pills I’ve saved up over the years are looking like a really good option…

The Vicious Cycle

I can’t specify the moment my anorexia began, but I can remember restricting my food intake as early as the 5th grade. At the time I placed all the blame on dance. I needed to be “healthy” and “in shape” and “thin”. But it really had very little to do with dance.

I grew up in a family where I quietly existed in the background, behind all the noise. My mom extremely depressed and suffering from severe OCD and my dad a man with two personalities who became violent at the drop of a hat. With a baby sister in the picture, and my mom much like a child herself, I became mom, protector and comforter.

I grew up unnoticed. I grew up taking care of every one else and I never learned that it was okay to take care of myself as well.

I was (am) a perfectionist and people-pleaser. I did everything I was supposed to and more.

And yet somehow I never felt like it was enough. I was convinced that I wasn’t enough and at the same time I was too much. As the years dragged on I came to believe that at the very core of my being, I was a bad person.

I suppose years of listening to my mom berate and punish herself, drilled the belief into my head that I deserved that treatment as well. I don’t know why I did, but I did. And I suppose that years of my father using my body as he pleased taught me that my body was worthless and an object to be abused.

I remember the first time I decided to stop eating. I was a freshman in high school rehearsing for the school musical. I don’t know why then, but for three weeks all I ate each day was a banana.

Why only three weeks?

My mom began to notice not only the weight loss but also the scars on my arms from puncturing and dragging my razor across my skin. Her reaction was not what I was expecting…”This is ridiculous. I did those things when I was your age, but I had a reason to be doing them.”

From that moment I learned very well how to keep the perfect secret.

I would go downstairs early before my mom awoke just so that I could put dishes in the sink in order to make her think I had breakfast or put a couple pieces of food on a paper plate and then shove it in the trash can to make it look like I had lunch. I knew exactly what to say to avoid questions and suspicion.

I was a master at my disease.

I was a master until I wasn’t. Until I crumbled into a mess of a being. Before my first round of inpatient treatment I went off to college where I spent my days starving myself and exercising and then eating my roommates hot Cheetos at night, only to hate myself afterwards and purge in the community restroom. And let me tell you that if there is one food you don’t want to purge, it’s hot Cheetos. It became so out of control that I couldn’t hide it anymore and was forced into treatment.

One would think that the moment right before round 1 of inpatient treatment would be someone’s rock bottom, and maybe for some it is, but for me that certainly wasn’t the case.

I spent the next 4 years relapsing and going back to treatment, relapsing and going back to treatment…each relapse worse than the one before it.

It came to the point where my treatment team was scared for my life, crying for me to get help. And now my mom was too…

There was one night in particular that is forever etched in my mind. For months I had spent every day in bed, eating less than 300 calories, and walking 3-4 miles a day, while also using laxatives and purging my consumed food.

We had a plumbing issue and our toilet flooded the entire downstairs. As we worked to resolve the issue and clean the house, I panicked. I had taken my nightly dose of laxatives, as I always did, except I didn’t have a restroom. I stood in the living room yelling at my mom that I needed to go to the bathroom and frustrated she told me I would have to hold it.

The problem was I couldn’t. I blurted out that I’d taken laxatives and sped to the nearest store. When I came home and the house was finally sanitized, I sat in the middle of the floor exhausted. My mom burst into tears begging me to go back to treatment. She exclaimed “I can’t sit back anymore while watching you slowly kill yourself every day.”

I didn’t know how it had gotten so bad so fast, and I didn’t even realize it until that moment.

I knew then that I had a disease I could not control. That I was powerless to this eating disorder. That I was an anorexic.

I proceeded to go back into treatment and unfortunately that relapse wasn’t my last.

I’ve now been out of treatment for over a year. I was doing better than I’d ever had in my recovery. And now I’m back to starving…

The cycle never ends…

Catch 22

The last few months have been incredibly difficult, and while I am aware of some of what has been causing such pain, there are other aspects of my life where I just feel out of the loop. I walk into my therapist’s office twice every week and recently there has been a theme. I don’t know what is wrong and yet I’m a mess. She asks what is going on…I don’t know…she asks what I need…I don’t know…it’s really quite frustrating and makes me feel as though I need to get over myself and get my shit together. And yet, the pain and emotions are so real I don’t know how to ignore them.

I suppose this is why I haven’t been blogging much. It’s hard to write about my life when I can’t even seem to figure it out in my head.

lost

Everything is so chaotic and counterintuitive.

I’m depressed and yet I find myself resisting seeing a doctor or getting back on medication.

I want to restrict and yet I need to keep my life together.

I want to SH to end up in the ER and be taken care of but I don’t want to end up in the ER.

I want to feel connected to people and yet I turn down opportunities to do so.

I want the pain to end but I don’t want to die.

I want to get high but I don’t want to eat.

I get high anyways.

And then I eat.

My weight hasn’t been this high in a long time and I am panicking. And yet I can’t seem to lose weight because I can’t seem to not get high every day. Because if I don’t get high I don’t get a break from the pain.

It’s all a catch 22.

I’m hurting. I’m stuck. I’m alone.

And I don’t know how to fix it…

The Pain of Knowledge

I’ve recently been reflecting a lot on the difference between my life in recovery and my life in my anorexia and how vastly different the two are for me and yet how vague they probably appear to others.

I think for the first time in my recovery I have reached a point where I want so badly to use behaviors for some relief but the amount of knowledge I have about myself and my disease keeps me for being able to do so. Which is good, I suppose, but also extremely frustrating. I’m stuck in this terribly uncomfortable middle ground where I know I can’t use old behaviors but I’m also unsure of how to affectively utilize new, healthy coping behaviors.

I’m stuck having to feel the pain of depression, anxiety, and ptsd, where as in the past I could simply not eat or throw up in order to numb the pain. I know this is a phase of recovery that is very much necessary and important, and at the same time that doesn’t make it any easier. I’ve been stuffing my pain for YEARS (like 18 years..) and now that I am allowing myself the space to feel the pain and not run from it, 18 years is hitting me all at once.

numbing the pain

It’s overwhelming, it’s suffocating, it’s terrifying, it feels like it will never end, and it hurts more than I could ever explain.

But I have to keep going. I have to get out of bed every day. I have to keep talking through it and taking one step after another.

And sometimes it doesn’t feel worth it…sometimes I wonder why I fight so hard. Can I be allowed to give up for once? My whole life I’ve fought like hell. Can I have little break? I’m exhausted.