We’ve been discussing having me drop out of school since December. When I was in the hospital in March, ma told me, “It’s okay. It’s alright. We don’t have to make a decision now. We’ll take it one day at a time until it stops working. Then we’ll make a decision.”

It stopped working. I’ve only been back in school since Monday. Academically, I’ve been doing better than I have in two years. I wrote a timed, in-class essay on Hemingway’s the Sun Also Rises, and I got a B+. That’s the highest grade I’ve gotten on a timed essay in AP English all year. The same day, I took a test in AP US history on the Great Depression through the Cold War. It took my class over a month to prepare for this test, and I did it in five days. I got a 90%, with a perfect score on the essay section. I haven’t gotten an A on anything in over two years.

Wednesday, I got the third round of botulinum (commonly known as botox) injections in the treatment for my chronic migraines. 12 injections in quick succession in my face and neck each round, and I haven’t had a full migraine in months. Yesterday, my braces were removed.

This should be good. No, this should be fucking fantastic. But Thursday morning my anxiety came back in full force. Panic attacks, shaking, sweating, crying, not sleeping, the full nine yards. Ma rescued me from school, and we went through the day as best we could while I continued having my nervous breakdown. I valiantly attempted to use the dialectical behavior therapy skills that I had tattooed onto my brain by a 16-week program that I went through.

I kept thinking about the angel Gabriel. My rabbi once told me the story of how Gabriel visits every child in the womb, and shows them the life that lays ahead of them. He shows you all the different choices you will have to make, and the different paths you could take. Your life branches out in front of you like an enormous tree, then he presses his thumb into the space between your nose and your upper lip. Whether he removes the memory or hides it in you, he leaves a mark. The little dent above your lip is where he pressed his finger.

I kept thinking about this for the rest of the day, and especially at night. I couldn’t sleep, no surprises there. I frittered about until I crawled out my window and onto the roof. I realized, last night, that the roof is my space in-between. I go there to be at peace, or to make decisions, to hide or to watch the stars.

Last night, my thoughts were running and running, much too fast for me to keep up. I kept thinking about what Gabriel showed me-all the decisions I could make, all the paths I might go on. Right now, there are two paths I could choose from. Don’t worry, I’m not going to pull a Robert Frost. Neither path has been used before, they’re mine and I’m the one that has to blaze the trail. It’s just a field, now, I just have to pick one of two directions to blaze the trail.

I can no longer pretend that all of these hospitalizations, these anxiety attacks, manic episodes, depressive episodes, the dissociation, overwhelming fear, that they’re part of a hormonal teenage phase. It transcended that a long time ago. These are things that I will be dealing with for the rest of my life.

A) I can stay in school for as long as I can.  I might even graduate. But this limits my treatment options, my recovery options. And I miss so much school as a result of my dysfunctional brain and my inability to cope that receiving passing marks is a pursuit comparable to climbing Everest; doable, but dangerous and likely to leave one with a permanent injury. It would look like this: I would go to school on the days I could, I would stay home on the days I couldn’t. Everyone would grow increasingly frustrated and increasingly stressed. Mum would have to take even more time off of work, and I would deal with recurring if not constant severe anxiety, depression, suicidal thoughts, self-doubt, self-hatred, and bone-deep weariness and loneliness.

B) I drop out of high school. I join a therapy or support group, I volunteer, I read, I write, I paint. I get my GED. I get a job at a clothing store or a cafe or a restaurant. I pretend like it’s enough, like I don’t hate myself for letting everyone down. I become dependent on my decent looks and limited charm to get by. I may meet a few new people and I may actually make a few friends. Maybe after a while I’ll start working on something worthy of being published, even if it that never happens. I would have broken everyone’s dreams of me being the first person in my family to graduate high school. I might get enough of a handle on myself to go to community college. I would live at home until I got a decent enough job to pay for my own dingy apartment in the city. I’ll still deal with mental illness in the various ways it comes at me, but this way I might actually have the time to get help. Leia and Aaron would be thoroughly confused and I might deal with regret for the rest of my life. This path would limit my career options, and limit my access to the various opportunities of the world. I would have to watch as the people I grew up with continued on the path that I had chosen to leave. Maybe I would learn how to cope with my anxiety and depression and mania and dissociation. Maybe I wouldn’t. My parents would hide their disappointment as best they could. They would be understanding and supportive, but unhappy with my limited future. My extended family would be shocked and judgmental. I would have to find a way to explain this decision for the rest of my life. I might find contentment. I might even find a way to love myself and to trust other people.

This decision is a terrifying one. It’s life-changing. It’s relationship-ruining. If I drop out, I will be judged and put down, I will be disappointed in myself and I may well resent this decision for the rest of my life. Then again, this may be perfect for me. Maybe the path I was so set on was the one meant to break me. Maybe ditching it for the unknown is just what I need to do. It might be the best thing I ever do.

If I stay in school, I might make it. I might graduate high school. I might even get into college. But I might wear myself down to where it feels like all my nerves are exposed. I might get so weary that I make another attempt, and it might be successful this time. Each time I make an attempt, I get closer to success. The next could be the last.

“Remember the times you could’ve pressed quit-but you hit continue.” – Instructions For A Bad Day by Shane Koyczan

Last night, I hit continue. As I was sitting on the roof, I kept thinking about the choice I had to make, and I knew that no matter which direction I chose, I would still struggle. I was so overwhelmed and so scared of making the wrong choice. I let my nerves overtake me, and I just sat on the roof, shaking and crying in a way that I had only done two other times–after Noah and after I broke up with Nathan. But then I remembered that in the overwhelmingly huge tree of choices–conscious and unconscious–in front of me, that that was one that I had control over.  So I gave a big fuck you to the part of me that wanted to give up. I hit continue.

I know, now, that either decision I make will be a desperate one. There’s no guarantee that one really will be better than the other, but I’ve reached such a point that I have to try something. I can’t keep trying to kill myself. I can’t keep pretending that I can do something when I can’t. I can’t keep putting off taking care of myself. I get sicker and sicker each day and I keep refusing to give getting better a chance. I continue in the same desperate pattern, I continue in pursuit of the same fruitless goal. I keep following an incorrect map that tells me that there’s a rest stop ahead when it’s just fields and cattle for miles on end. I’m tempted to ask Rose for advice, ask George for advice, or Leia, or Aaron, but I know that this is my future, and this is a decision I have to make on my own. Because in the end, I’m the one that wrestles with my demons, though others are affected by them. I can’t deny that I’m scared. Oh, screw that, I’m fucking terrified. I can’t stop going over the way the two paths could play out, the way they could go wrong or go well. But it’s time. I’ve put this off for months and the longer I wait the worse my head gets and it’s just time.

“What do you want from me?” urges my desperate mouth.

I stare into her emerald green eyes, wishing I could click my heels three times and I will vanish from sight, vanish into a place unknown, a place I can call home.

Yet I’m stuck. I’m stuck staring into her eyes. Wide ovals, with deep dark under circles. The dark circles that are there from the insomnia that is a new menace to her life. The insomnia that keeps her on the brink of insanity. It’s a fine line between sane and insane, a line she regretfully knows all too well. On the brink is where she lives her life.

So why must I stare at her demanding answers?

Anger swells up inside of me. Uncontrollable urges to do impulsive reckless behaviors. I watch her eyes get that look of crazy I know all too well, I feel my jaws clench and my fists tighten in an effort to simmer down my out of control urges.

Wack!

“Ah!” I cry out in pain. Cradling my hand as if it were a new born baby; “I hate you” I whisper to her. The thousands of her I see as I stare at the cracked mirror my fist just impounded.

When Life gives you lemons, don’t squeeze the lemon juice into your eyes.

I haven’t changed,

but somehow the person staring back at me

is again that bit more broken than before.

I can’t decide
if I’ve got black
eyes or need some
cheese with my
whine;
the mirror is
always lying

The thoughts keeping me awake may not be keeping me awake, they just might be symptoms of lack of sleep, so I have no idea if writing about them will actually help, but while I’m awake I might as well write about them.

The first troubling thought I keep having is related to my ex, I’ve not heard from her in a long time now. I seem to go through these phases of panic where I’m just “convinced” she’s killed herself. I have no evidence for doing this except her periods of nihilistic moodiness and dependence on anti-depressants to function. Just thinking about this happening for long enough has reduced me to sobbing more than once. The merest thought of her dead is heart-chilling to me. It’s an emotional fire I can’t bare to stand in. My friends tell me that I’m being melodramatic and I’m just making a drama where none exist, one friend even went so far to say that she’d be happy if my ex killed herself because of what she did to me. That made me feel like I’d been kicked in the gut. (NB: I have no resentment at all towards my friend for saying that, what made me react like that was the thought of her actually killing herself).

Now I write about it, it’s obvious why this is upsetting me: no one has validated my feelings of concern for my ex’s safety and wellbeing. I don’t think they’re comfortable with me having these feelings and they’re trying to silence them by telling me to stop feeling them. But the invalidation of them is making the feelings worse and more intense than necessary. I’m sure one day I’ll stop worrying about her, but right now she still means a lot to me, even if I mean nothing but a regretful mistake to her.

The second troubling thought I’ve been having is my lack of discipline and maintaining my schedule. I’m very busy these days and I need to work to a schedule to keep things under control. But I’ve been very resistant in keeping to my schedule. I feel like a part of me is screaming in protest over it, if I could capture the feeling in words it would something like:

“This is appalling, you’re demanding too much from me, I’m not this good! I’m nothing special, I’m slow, I’m old, stupid and unoriginal. I can’t achieve these things. You seem to think you’re someone special, but you’re not, you’re a nobody, an impostor, pretending to be someone important and significant. You’re a failure with legs! You’re stealing somebody else’s life and you don’t deserve to succeed, you only deserve to fail.”

Clearly, there’s a lot of self-doubt inside of me, and it’s funny after turning that feeling to words I really don’t mind the thoughts, I think they’re pretty common to most people, it’s the fact that part of me is against me I can’t stand. I hate treason more than any other crime, so to think there’s a saboteur inside me worries me a great deal. Why would I think and feel these things about myself? Why would I be against my own team?

I wonder now though if by not accepting these feelings I’m also unwittingly making them worse? That the more I try to push them out of my mind, and I have been for weeks now, the louder and more shrill these negative thoughts about myself are getting. Self-acceptance is like this, it’s about accepting these things we don’t like about ourselves, that’s not the same as liking them, one can still hate them, but just admitting that they exist.

I don’t like the fact I put myself down, but I accept that I do.

Just writing that sentence has made my eyes water a little. I feel like I’ve just stopped being angry with myself for being against myself and I’m feeling some relief. It’s so funny how we have this intimate relationship with ourselves and it’s like there’s a marriage in our mind and all of life’s biggest stresses seem to be caused by problems in the relationship within us.

I wonder if we are modeled by bad behavior from our parent’s relationship that it results in bad behavior inside ourselves? Whenever my parents argued, I felt as though they were tearing me apart inside because the fights felt like they were happening in my head too. As though I had some kind of inner mother and father screaming and cursing each other like mine used to do.

I always wanted my parents to sort out their issues, but purely for myself, because if they were at peace in the real world I figured the war between them inside of me would finally end too. My father is long dead now, I have to find a way to resolve their relationship problems in my head, so to speak, by myself.

We’re all half our mother and half our father, so if our parents hate each other, we are can easily be drawn into this conflict. The two halves of our being shouldn’t fight each other, instead they should be beautifully and sweetly in love with each other.

I hope to have such a pleasant and beautiful relationship with a woman one day, so when we make our own children, they will never experience the pain that I felt.

I’ve forgotten what else was on my mind now, I’m feeling better anyway, I’m going to try to get some more sleep before dawn.

Update: I remember the other troubling thought:

Seeing and hearing my ex in my head telling me that I don’t, can’t and couldn’t possibly love her. Telling me I’m a liar, that I’m delusional or criminally insane, that I don’t love her, no one could possibly love her because she’s unloveable.

I found myself telling her obsessively over and over that I loved her and she got angrier and angrier with me each time. Like the anorexic hearing the voice in their head screaming at them over and over that they’re fat, I hear a overwrought, fanatical and desperate voice in my head saying over and over, “I love you, I love you, I love you, why won’t you believe me? I love you, I love you, I love you…”

When you’re feeling (not any particular emotion, just in general) and it gets too intense sometimes it’s easiest to just hate yourself. It’s comforting and relaxing to fall into old, well-worn thought patterns. Mantras of self-hatred are like your “fat jeans” or that old sweatshirt you wear around the house when no one is looking. When you go through most of your life being torn down and degraded for who you are, it’s just easier, safer.

Background on me: I was sexually, physically, and emotionally abused as a child. It’s still awkward and difficult for me to say or type that, but it’s important to get it out there. It’s especially hard since my parents adamantly deny that they did anything wrong. According to them, I’m lying, exaggerating, making it all up.

I don’t know when the sexual abuse started. I only remember one specific incident, and that was the last one. My brother had me in our grandmother’s bathroom and was putting things in my vagina. I don’t remember going in, how long we were there, or anything but the sudden realization that what he was doing was wrong. I walked out, told my grandmother, and that was the last time I recall it happening. Based on my personality, my fear of being touched or held, and my responses to certain stimuli, I’m fairly certain it wasn’t an isolated incident, but that’s a story for another time.

The physical abuse lasted from when I was at least 4 or 5 until I was 18. My father was the main punisher in the family, and I have no doubt that he thought (and still thinks) that it was simply discipline. One thing I’m still learning is to not make excuses for him, though. There is no valid reason for spanking your 5 year-old until she loses control of her bladder (and often continuing after). There is no disciplinary need for slapping your teenage daughter in the head so hard that she falls down (or hits the wall) and is too dizzy to stand for several minutes. I am not sure, but I think this may be one of the reasons that I self-harm. It’s ingrained in me to take my wrongdoings out on myself physically.

The emotional abuse, though, has been the most insidious. It’s worked it’s way deep into my psyche and gnaws at me until I break. Fat, stupid, useless, lazy, worthless, selfish, a failure…words that were repeated so many times during the first two decades of my life. As young as 5 I was weighing myself weekly and fanatically avoiding weight gain. I obsessed over remaining at least 5 lbs below the recommended weight bracket for my age/height. When I reached 11 or 12 and had a growth spurt, gaining about 10 lbs, I freaked. It was aided by my mom telling me that if I wasn’t careful and didn’t stop eating so much I’d wind up fat like her. I began exercising a couple hours a day, every day, until I lost the weight I’d gained (because gaining weight during puberty is SO bad, right?). Not long after that we moved from Naples to Seattle, and I began eating a lot out of depression. I gained 20 lbs. Was I fat? No. Did I think I was? Yes. Did my mom tell me I was? Yes. Ah, self-hatred…I’d missed you, old friend.

Being stupid, useless, lazy, worthless, and a failure were common reminders from my parents. My IQ is somewhere around 135. I graduated college with honors (with no effort). I’m fucking brilliant. But I was constantly reminded of my stupidity. During college I forewent all the usual things (parties, drinking, sex, making friends) in a desperate attempt to impress people, make connections, and not be a failure. I really did succeed. I graduated having worked with several local non-profits, with a reputation as an organizer and activist, friends with a number of local politicians, and some great experience under my belt. I worked up to 3 jobs and volunteered with several groups outside of school and work. Even now I work full-time and spend up to 20 hours a week volunteering. Yes, 60 hour weeks are my norm, because if I do anything less it just proves how lazy I am. Right? No? Oops.

Anyway, I’ll get to the point. Whenever I start to feel too much, too happy, too sad, too confident, too capable, too anything, I start repeating my mantra: I am ugly. I am fat. I am stupid. I am useless. I am worthless. I will never amount to anything. I will never succeed. I will never change the world. I am unlovable. Everyone who DOES love me will eventually come to their senses and leave. I am damaged. I am broken. It IS an addiction. It’s a distraction. It’s less self-destructive than some things (luckily I never got into drugs or alcohol) but it’s still a coping mechanism. It’s what I turn to when I need something, when I have to dull the feels or escape.

And possibly the worst part (for me)? I didn’t even realize that maybe that was a bad thing until I started writing this post…oops.

http://www.xojane.com/healthy/i-think-i-found-a-new-addiction-self-hatred

Then, I watched the Lorax – mind you, I didn’t have any clue what Andy’s real name was so I never connected the two together. I just knew that the Onceler in the Lorax was named Ed Helms. I never saw a picture of the real guy either, yet I just fell in love with his voice, his character and his neat skill for clever lyrics. I have a fetish for male singers and I just love that natural, clear sound and I kept thinking “I have to look up this Ed Helms guy, he must be as cute as his character to have a voice like that.” So I did some research, still not seeing a picture, discovered that he played the instruments for a lot of the songs in the Lorax and wrote a lot of music and I found a SNL episode with him in it. I didn’t have time to watch it, so I tried skimming it to find his skits, and I couldn’t find them and so it was driving me nuts! Finally my brother said to me: “Oh, Ed Helms? That’s Andy in the Office.” 

Now, I haven’t watched The Office in a while and my first thought was “Andy? Isn’t he the one that ends up with that secretary, Pam?” My instant connection for that was that he looked like the Onceler with brown hair.

“No,” he said, “That’s Jim….this is Andy.” and he showed me the picture. 

My jaw dropped. 

“THAT guy?”

Last night I watched The Office episodes with a main purpose of looking for Andy. “Ed Helms, Ed Helms,” I kept saying and I found myself shocked that my fascination and attraction for someone turned out to be none other than Andy…ANDY of all people! I watched and watched with interest and the interest turned into admiration and admiration into…well, attraction. I actually found myself attracted and forming a crush on this rather unattractive man. The talents that Ed Helms has seemed to make him more beautiful and then I started to see that his eyes were really nice and his smile was actually kinda cute….

I know what you’re thinking. He is a lot older than me and the thought is just, well, ew. I mean, such a crush is understandable when it’s someone like Gerard Butler or Hugh Jackman. Who can resist foreign accents with a mix of talk, dark and handsome?

I don’t know….my Ed Helms crush is weird, strange and nonsensical. But, he puts a smile on my face with his whimsical charm, musical skills, attractive voice and his….well, natural look. 

I only hope that someone might find the same views in me. I’m not attractive, my legs aren’t very long, my Sicilian ancestry makes me rather hairy, I’m way too fat and my face is not only long, but round, I have unattractive sideburns, my pear shaped body makes my look like a sausage in skinny jeans and the constant angry feelings I have about myself just makes me feel as ugly and disgusting as I look….

I’m glad Ed Helms can take my mind off of that for a while. 

Ask?
Image Courtesy of
Google Images

I restarted my card-drawing today, and from The Four Agreements, by Don Miguel Ruiz, I drew my old favorite subject – Don’t Make Assumptions:

Ask for what you want

Find the courage to ask for what you want.  Others have the right to tell you yes or no, but you always have the right to ask.  Likewise, everybody has the right to ask you for what they want, and you have the right to say yes or no.

For most of my life, I have avoided asking for what I want.  This began when I was a child, and I think I felt like I couldn’t depend on the answer I wanted, so I began to believe that those who love me should know what I wanted.  I don’t remember what started this process for me; when I reached 14, and received my diagnosis of diabetes, I felt completely alone.  I couldn’t ask for anything, because I feared the disdain which accompanied my requests.  My early childhood assumptions left me with the belief that no one cared what I wanted, anyway.

I’m not blaming my parents or my siblings for this.  In fact, Mom to me, quite recently, that my diagnosing doctor had told my parents not to be involved in my diabetes.  They followed his orders, thinking they were doing what was best for me.  But to me, they seemed uncaring and completely uninvolved, and I came to believe that I was to blame.  I felt an extreme release of burden when Mom told me what they’d been told.

By the time I reached my 20s, I was married and expecting my spouse (-es, eventually,) to read my mind.  At first, I couldn’t see that I was doing this, but as time went on, and I had the same kinds of problems with husband after husband, I just figured I chose bad men to marry.  Only lately have I been able to admit that the fault lay at least 50% with me, and often much more.  I actually married a couple of really good men, and treated them pretty badly.  My third husband and I had this and other problems we couldn’t resolve, but once again, he did not deserve the blame I bestowed upon him.

I was afraid to ask for much of anything.  I didn’t object out loud when he slept on the couch every single night of our marriage, for instance — I simply seethed and boiled inside because he didn’t know what I wanted.  This anger continued for me until long after our divorce.

So what changed?  One night, with a little help from Don Miguel Ruiz’ Four Agreements, and a big nudge from an old friend, I forgave myself, not only for not asking, but for all the other mistakes and missteps I’d made over the long years of my life.  I can’t say I was cured of my depression, because I still take antidepressants.  I can’t really say I stopped altogether my tendency to expect mind-reading in others — I’ve had a few instances of that, though nowhere near what I used to put myself and others through.

The trick about forgiving myself was that each time I faced an old situation with my new understanding, I strengthened the power of that knowledge within me, and cemented further the idea that all my self-blame and self-hatred were feelings of the past, and that I could joyfully move forward with an infinitely lighter load to carry.  That one simple act, which took me 50 years to understand and complete, has allowed me to change almost all the troubles in my past into lessons for my future.

And now, I ask.

I can’t make you.
I can’t save you.
I can’t see the boy you were.
I’ll never know the man you will become?

Because it’s not certain,

not in-sight.

Tired of being the bitch-wife, bitterly

you look at as mom.

Tired of “being” right and being told I’m “wrong”
Such a tired Wedding Song.

.

You looked at them and wondered why you were so ugly; you looked closely and could not find the source. Then you realized that it came from conviction, their conviction. It was as though some mysterious all-knowing master had given each one a cloak of ugliness to wear, and they had accepted it without question (39)

I can’t remember the last time I pitied a character as much as I pitied Pecola Breedlove. She isn’t the main character of this novel, but she is easily the most important. Pecola wants blue eyes, like those creepy baby dolls that everyone adores. But she will never have those eyes and she will never be adored as they are–not socially, not romantically, not even adored by her mother or father. In fact, because of her blackness, for she is definitely the wrong kind of black, she’s somewhat an outcast within the black community.

Pecola Breedlove is an interesting name, a revealing name. One quick Google search told me the name Pecola means: (1) You sense and feel much that you do not understand, and sometimes you are alarmed at your thoughts and wonder about their origin and (2) You crave understanding and affection but your intensity of desire and your self-consciousness prevent you from finding the happiness you desire. Another search told me it simply meant “a brazen woman”. I find these two definitions somewhat contradicting…the former being more reflective of the trauma Pecola experiences in the book. The latter seems more ironic. It’s as ironic as her last name, Breedlove. Pecola is not exactly the product of love and she most likely won’t experience any herself.

In fact, The Bluest Eye and the concept of beauty found within it (having blue eyes, lighter skin, non-curly hair) is only one theme that makes this book relevant. It’s also about love, or the lack thereof. It’s about letting someone or something have so much control over your thoughts and perception that you ultimately accept it as truth. And the truth for Pecola and many blacks in the 1940s is that they weren’t lovable– because of their skin color, they were not deserving of love. And so they did not love each other. Pecola’s father hated himself (he had some daddy issues) and so he hated everyone else. He raped his daughter and then hated himself more and his daughter for what he’d done…in this way Morrison marries the concept of love and beauty.

At first,  I was slightly shocked by the sexual content in this book…but then I got over it. There are a few graphic scenes, but in the grand scheme they’re not inappropriate. Sex and sexuality are outwardly taboo, but it’s the thread connecting everyone. Sex created those lighter-skinned and darker- skinned blacks. Sex was veiled as love. Sex numbed the pain and sometimes it fueled the pain. Morrison marries love, beauty, hate, sexuality and history.

Theme Song: Atreyu – Slow Burn
Lyrics: http://www.lyricsondemand.com/a/atreyulyrics/slowburnlyrics.html

Again it seems that I turn to this band when confusion and self-loathing wake me in the middle of the night.

This week has been fantastic. No. Seriously, it has been FANTASTIC.

He filled his scripts last Thursday. I dreaded coming home. When I did, he handed me 15 of each pill and told me to hold them. He didn’t ask me for any till yesterday. A vast improvement over weeks before.
I decided not to celebrate Easter this year. No big dinner planned, which I usually host since my parents don’t have heat and hot water still (3 years after I moved out. Sigh). I told my ex he can have the boys for the day since I didn’t plan anything… of course, as with anything else good I try and do, his wife had to do the opposite and they dropped the kids off at 3… so we pulled a “Christmas Story” and ordered Chinese food. (Any other time she would fight me for the holiday. The time I GIVE them the holiday, they give it back… sigh.). The husband was a little upset that I didn’t celebrate Easter, even when I was invited to go to my friend’s house. But I just wasn’t up for it. I didn’t want to be around people.
But, overall, not a bad weekend, all things considered.

So why the confusion and self-loathing? Well, I am wondering just how manipulated I should allow myself to be (Confusion) and hating the fact that when things are good, I STILL can’t enjoy them (Self-loathing).

What the fuck have I become that even when things are good, I keep waiting for the hammer to fall and destruction to ensue? Is this what my life has turned into? One bad moment leading into another, one fuck up followed by another, constant self-inflicted turmoil and drama? WHY CAN’T I FIND HAPPINESS IN HIS EFFORT TO TRY?!?!?! Why is it that I can’t see what he is doing as effort and only see it as manipulation??? IS it manipulation? Am I seeing it wrong? How the fuck would I know if I am the one being manipulated? OMFG I am so damned confused and I keep running myself in circles.

All I dream about is going to sleep and never waking up. If I don’t wake up, I don’t have to face another day of this. I don’t have to hurt anyone else. I don’t have to hurt myself. No guilt. No destruction. No pain. I don’t want to hurt anyone anymore. Not him. Not my sons. Not my friends or family. I am tired of everything I do festering into guilt-riddled self-loathing. I am tired of feeling like in order to be happy, I must hurt someone else. And I am tired of feeling that my happiness is out of my control… that the only way I believe I can be happy is if everyone else is happy.Why is it that I know damned well what will make me happy, but if it involves hurting someone else, I can’t bring myself to follow through and put myself and my well-being first? I know so many people who put themselves ahead of all others, never taking anyone into consideration. And I envy them. In order for me to do that, I need to hurt people. I HATE hurting people. And that fact, along with years of guilt, is used to manipulate and control me. And I am fully aware of it. And I allow it to happen. And I hate myself for it.

I know…that it’s killing me… and it’s poisoning… the best of me. (The lyrics to this song really speak volumes)

I do not fear death. Death is not scary. It is finite and painless. I fear life.

But it was not all good.

What can I say?  I am honest.  Meg and I fought a bit.  As always, it was my fault.  I get craziness in my head and, suddenly, CRAZY makes sense to me, and everyone around me pays.  Seeing as how I am a recluse, “everyone” is Meg.

I have become tired with myself.  It seems like, when something sticks in my craw, I CANNOT get out of that mindset.  When that happens, I become a rather NOT NICE person.

Meg has been forgiving.  She tells me that she “understands.”  I put that in ” “s because I don’t understand it or see how it is understandable.  She says she understands, though, and I believe her.

Meg and I have a lot of letters in common.  Because of that, I can see how much better she has gotten and just believe her.  She’s been there.

It is very hard, though, to keep from crying every day, knowing what idiotic thing I said the night before when I was CONVINCED that Meg was just trying to manipulate me into a small shadow of a man,  Right!  Meg is trying to do that.  The reason I cry is that, when I am not out of my mind, I am overwhelmed with gratitude and humility that she is even still here.

Psssssst…. I think she is crazy!  Don’t tell anyone.  She’ll beat me.  The satellite is out of range for this part of the post.  Send brownies.

It’s funny.  I have spoken about my idea that my JOB is to create an atmosphere in which Meg can bloom into the beautiful flower that she is.  I just realized.  It is Meg who, through her persistent love, has enabled me to BE, a FREEDOM, that I have never experienced anymore.

Meg tells me that we are both crazy and we cannot expect a “normal” relationship,” like I would want any of the “normal” relationships I have ever seen.  She says that, because we are both fucked up, there are going to be times that we just say stupid shit and that is just the way it is.  She says the important part is that we are cognizant and try to get over “hurts” quickly because, deep down, both of us know that neither of us mean them.  She also says it is important that I stop hating myself.  I really want to believe all of that.

Why do I feel so alone? He’s right there. But he’s not really here, he’s safely in the catacombs of his mind, safe from this world. I have to be in this world, awake, aware, and sad. Sad because of previous events. Because my disgustingly obsessive mind won’t stop over thinking the whole “falling in love” thing. I wish I hadn’t said it. I wish I had kept those words hidden in myself, a secret only for me until he was ready. 

Sometimes I hate myself.

Especially at night.

Happy things, beautiful things, hopeful things, helpful things

I’m trying to distract myself.

I am alone tonight. 

Normally I’d be okay… but tonight my mind is heaping up accusations so quickly and heavily I can’t counter them all.  And I’m faltering, I’m going to fall… I want to give in and let the negative thoughts win out and push me down.

I messed up.  Because I was dumb and put myself in a triggering situation.  I thought I could handle it.  I thought wrong.  Why do I do this to myself?  All you people out there who struggle with eating disorders… I know you at least understand.  I so very much want to recover… but that only makes me hate myself more when I mess up. 

I know this road isn’t easy.  I know that slip-ups happen.  But each and every one of my slip-ups could’ve been avoided.  I ate by my own choice.  I purged by my own choice.  And now I’m so mad at myself for choosing ED behaviors.

I was doing so well.  I hadn’t purged since Spring Break.  That’s three whole weeks.  Three long weeks.  But then today happened.  I feel like someone’s shouting in my face that I’m never going to get better.  Not me.  I’m too weak.  I can’t do this.  I should just go back to anorexia.  When I didn’t eat, I never had to deal with purging. 

And this is all my own flippin fault!  I knew what I was doing.  I knew that eating alone in my room would be triggering.  I don’t even deserve to get better.  I don’t work at it enough… I just let these things happen.  I let myself mess up.  It was my own choice.

People give me all kinds of tips for what to do when I have to eat.  But the thing is, I’ve gotten to the point where I’m mostly okay with eating small but complete meals.  I can handle it.  Usually.  But what am I supposed to do now?  When I’ve completely failed.  Again.

Anyone who’s never had an eating disorder wouldn’t understand how strong my self-hatred is right now.  I feel like a frickin piece of crap.  Well, I feel like a lot worse than that, but I’m trying not to cuss. 

I want to punish myself.  I want to cut.  I really want to cut.  Not to kill myself, just to hurt.  I want to carve words in my skin.  I want to write the labels that I feel define me.  I want to do to myself what I really deserve.  No one has to know… and I know it would make me feel better anyway. 

Trying to distract myself… it’s not working… I want to cut so bad.  I hate myself.  I want to die.  I’m never going to be able to live free of an eating disorder. 

I want to be safe right now.  I want to curl up next to somebody who loves me and just wait for the urges to pass.  God help me… I’m gonna fail again… if I start cutting, I won’t be able to stop…

Anyway, I went to my second meeting yesterday.  This means I’ve been on the program for one week.  Typically, on my second weigh-in, I tend to lose a large amount of weight, for instance, 4 or 5 pounds.  I lost two.  Those two pounds ruined my entire day.  At work, I was able to hold it in and when I finally got to my car, I just burst into tears.  I had several crying fits on the ride home as well.  I don’t believe my mood was affected by the two pounds.  I think I feel this way because I’m just realizing how long this journey will take.

When I began my weight loss crusade, (last week), I weighed in at 237.8.  This is actually less than what I weighed last July, which was 251 pounds.  To give you an idea of how this weight is distributed, I am 5’7½” tall.  I intend to post a current picture soon.

Eventually, I would like to weigh 120 pounds,  It is so overwhelming to imagine how long it’ll take me to lose all that weight.  The scariest thing for me is the thought that I will be 35 by the time I lose the weight and no one will want me.  It’s making my eyes moist just thinking about it.

I’m still not at the point where I believe I’m worth it.  If a man were to compliment me, then I might believe him.  I can remember being in college and having female friends tell me “It doesn’t matter what I think, the only compliments that matter to you come from men.”  That is still true to this day.  I can’t believe I’m attractive or interesting unless a male peer tells me so.

Unfortunately, I don’t think someone will want to date me until I’ve lost 80 pounds.  It is going to take forever to lose 80 pounds.  It upsets me more than anything to think that I could spend another 2 years trying to lose the weight so that I can finally date.

I suppose I should be proud of myself for starting this journey.  It’s a big step for me.  I just can’t stop thinking of the time that I will spend being fat.  More than anything, I want to hear compliments.  I can’t spend my entire life hating myself.

EVERY type of person sees sex workers.  Every single type of person.  Some are shy and nerdy, some are loud and demanding.  Some of them are like your father, some of them are like your mother, some of them are like your priest.  Some of them are police, farmers, sales people, firemen/women.  Frat boys, quite teachers, loud teachers, sexy people, disabled people, non-disabled people, etc.  Shall I go on?  Every single type of person sees sex workers.

I have done indoor and outdoor work.  I have seen nice and not nice people.  I have been attacked, I have been taken on dates, I have been flown to different countries, put up in nice hotels, thrown out on the street, robbed, kissed, fucked, raped, loved, beaten, stalked, admired.

I have dated men, while not doing sex work, who beat and raped and tortured me.  I have been engaged to someone who payed my bills and “took care” of me, but cheated on me constantly and controlled my every movement.

I like my job.  I like the men I see.  I never had the strength or self worth before I started doing sex work to tell someone to fuck off.  I never thought of myself as anything more than a whore.  Now I’m proud to be a whore.  I’m proud to have sex, to fuck, to blow, lick, suck, whatever.  I enjoy it sometimes, I don’t sometimes.  I enjoy the company most of the time.  I like who I am and I like what I do, and I like the people I see.

Some people do not like sex work.  I do not think this is a bad thing.  I do not think someone is evil or wrong or horrible if they don’t enjoy sex work, I just think it doesn’t work for them.  It’s hard work, and it’s damaging work to some people.  If you think of it in a certain way, you will hate yourself for it.  If you hate sex, you probably shouldn’t do sex work.  If you think sex is disgusting, it’s really not the job for you.  If you have trauma related to sex, well it could go either way really, but if it makes it worse, don’t do it.  Some people naturally do not like sex, some people don’t like sex for other reasons.

However.  Do not tell me that I should hate it.  Do not tell me that I am delusional to think it’s empowering.  Do not tell me that I need fixing, or that I am somehow disgusting because of how you feel or what has happened to you.  I won’t let people put their religions on me, I’m not going to let you put your issues on me either.  If you want me to feel guilty about something I enjoy and something that I find empowering and something that has helped me immeasurably through some serious trauma that no therapy ever has, you are telling me to stay broken.  You are telling me that it’s more important to you that I hate sex and think sex work is how you see it, than my own mental health.  You are telling me to be miserable again and to see the world in a way that I do not.  I’m not telling you you have to enjoy sex work, and I will always support someone who feels they need help, but you will not drag me into a pit of despair just because you think it’s wrong to do what I do.

What I do, is for me and the people I choose.  It’s not for you.

If you are unhappy and you feel there is no way out, I’m sorry that you feel that way.  I believe that your misery is valid and you should have all the help you need and want.  I wish that things had been different for you and you could have done something you didn’t get damaged by.  No one deserves to be damaged by other people.

I wrote this after reading Why Ireland Needs the Criminalisation of Demand http://survivingprostitution.wordpress.com/ but it’s more directed at people saying this sort of thing to all sex workers for years, and saying that they should hate themselves and disrespecting our own self respect.

The point of this post was that I feel like people have this ingrained hatred towards women owning their sexuality, that is based in religious beliefs usually, that is extremely demeaning.  I fucking hated my bartending job where the owner would talk shit about me in front of me to customers and call me a “stupid bitch”, but I was working illegally in a country I wasn’t allowed to work in (to survive, if we must even go into that whole issue) so I had no right to complain.  (That’s a damn good metaphor for sex work in some areas too but that’s for a different post.)  I hated that job and I was traumatized by it.  I know that sex work is different and sex is different, intimacy gets into your head more, but I am drawing the comparison to the fact that some people love bartending.  Some people love their jobs at coffee shops, some people love being stock traders, and other people hate it, loath it, and would never do it again.  Those are all valid opinions but because the morality of sex doesn’t come into it, there is no discussion like this going into it.  No one is telling bartenders that they should hate themselves because it’s an immoral job and since they hated doing it everyone else is just delusional to enjoy it.  That just doesn’t really come up does it?  But because of the religious ”morality” aspect of sex, we hear this shit all the time.  I do not believe that sex is evil.  I believe that sex is good, fun, and I like having sex with many different people.  I like giving people pleasure, and I like people getting pleasure from what I do.  I am a good person, and I like myself for the things I do.  I always work on being a better person and I think that sex is my business and people should respect that.  Thank you.

Dealing with self-esteem issues or any issue for that matter is not a big deal if we are really willing to resolve our problems. But there are times when some of us tend to take an extreme stand about themselves after years of struggling with issues. One one extreme is self pity and other self hatred.

From a healing point of view, both are really dangerous attitudes. Because they not only prevent us from effectively resolving our issues but also become a very important reason why we are facing issues also. Let us see how.

Self pity is a sorry state. A person with self pity begins to see himself in a sorry state and as a figure of sacrifice. He feels he is a helpless victim of any situation and believes he would remain so. He often spends time in pitying himself and blaming others for his plight. He comes to feel so bad for himself so much that they readily accept the victim’s role as a part of who they are.

And once that happens, they continue to attract situations where they can play victims. The mind always makes true what it believes. It manipulates situations and people around to fulfill its needs and beliefs. So once the person believes he is a victim, he unconsciously seeks to worm himself into situations where he could become one. It is like if you become a doctor, you need to treat patients to justify your role. So you set up a medical practice and start seeking people with illnesses. Much similarly, the mind starts looking for situations and people who would victimize it so the self-pity is justified. These people carry a lot of resentment and anger within.

Self hatred also works similarly but on the opposite side of the scale. Person who hates herself usually start playing the role of a perpetrator. She needs to justify her hatred. She just starts looking for victims and situations where she could have reasons to hate herself. In her mind, it’s all her fault! These people also carry a lot of guilt. They also carry a need to punish themselves.

People on these two extremes have a need to make sad stories of their lives. The truth is that need is neither ‘subconscious’ or ‘unconscious’. There is no need for a hypnotherapy regression or ‘psychological evaluation’ to bring up this need to the surface. All one has to do is to watch their thoughts and the motivations will be readily seen. If you can watch your thoughts with complete honesty – which means without denying or resisting them in any way – you can readily find out if you are carrying any of these traits in you. By watching your thoughts, you can also easily realize how you are manipulating yourself into a victim’s or a perpetrator’s role

This becomes the first block to any healing or therapy.  This needs to go in order to resolve other issues in your life. How can self pity and self hatred be healed? All you need is consistent refusal to take that attitude. Be alert in your head and watch your thoughts keenly. The moment you start feeling sorry for yourself and anger for situation or the moment you start cursing yourself and feel severe guilt, just move into the present moment and refuse to take that attitude. Be consistent and you can easily come out of that viewpoint.

Suggested Readings:
Emotional Drama
Power of Manifestation
It’s too late now!

Picture Courtesy: David Castillo Dominici @ freedigitalphotos.net

Engorged…like a swollen tick who as binged on so much blood that the color of its skin has turned gray and it’s legs are lost upon cliffs of fat. I hate that feeling. Last night I saw an episode of Buffy on tv and low and behold I was shown what I felt like. This demon – I don’t even know the whole story – looked as if he was sitting in a tub of his own filth. His fat rippled endlessly around him. The only word I have for it: Engorged.
My two friends who spent the night – right, I was suppose to tell you about it. Well, in preparation for it, I scrambled about my room hiding all my food servings charts, calorie counting notebooks, blood stained (from cutting and self hatred) weight charts and such and hid them all under my pillow. While they were here, I completely hated myself as I “engorged” on sweet things and carbohydrates such as homemade peanut butter Clif bars, animal crackers and pretzels, we had pasta for dinner, yogurt, fruit and I just felt UGH – then of course my chef brother came home after they left and announced he had to bake a cake for his friend’s wedding. It’s a sampler, he said, a moist carrot pineapple cake with a cream cheese frosting. I had only one piece, but that was one piece too many and it was so “good” in so many ways – I hated him for that.
This morning, my dad chased me out of the bathroom because of his so called “bladder” problems (he worries about things obsessively that usually don’t exist) in which I could not weigh myself and then my mom sat me down for breakfast burrito using leftovers from last night’s Mexican night (in which I again engorged and did not purge my system of the disgusting calorie impurities – I did otherwise this morning).

Needless to say, I think the half hour of jump rope I did in the driveway yesterday was useless…

Binge/Purge Free: An hour and 14 minutes
Weight: I want to cry
Calories consumed: (So far – 370)

Middle-aged acne is an asshole.

How is it possible that the presence of acne can STILL make me feel ugly?

Getting pretty good with this iPad photo thing. Just wish I could like the subject as much as I like the technology

I just… hate myself. I hate being so fat. I mean, I’m not as ugly as some, but still, I’m fat and I look stupid and I just… ugh! I wish I could just take the fat off and be lighter and have more engery and be healthy and be okay and be happy and get a job and just… life would be better. But I can’t just wave a wand… I can try to either eat healthy and diet or try to improve my exercising, or starve, or starve and move, but that’d be harder I think… :-/ Honestly, every single fucking time I see a skinny girl, I remember how much I wanna not be the fat girl. I look like I’m retarded… like i have down syndrome..-no offense to those who are or know those who have that, no offense intended at all. I just mean.. (tears) I hate myself. I know I’d never harm myself, but sometimes I wish I could just.. I just wanna stop being fat.