I’m Choosing to Live

Just had a long and emotional talk with my therapist.

I’m caught in this cycle of lying and restricting, but I can stop it before it gets worse. But I can’t stop it myself.

Outside of this blog, I’ve used my cutting to distract from my anorexia. I wanted to convince everyone that it was my only issue, and I managed to convince myself.

Part of me has been waiting for this to get life-threatening before I ask for help or try to stop. This is sick.

I’ve been telling myself that I have a little bit of an eating disorder or a little bit of anorexia. Not true.

I have a problem.

I want to get better.

Right now I need help, but ultimately I am the one who is in control of my life. I am the only person who can decide if I’m going to recover.

By telling my therapist that I need more help than I’m getting here, I am choosing to get better.

I’m actually really proud of myself right now.

I’m going to delete this blog after the relevant people (I linked it to my therapist, family, etc) have finished reading it. I’m not going to leave myself the option of coming back here and re-engaging in this. I’ve used this blog to say the things I should have told my therapist and support system, and I can’t do that again.

Secrets keep you sick. I finally understand this, and believe it.

I can choose to keep myself anorexic and to be in this place or I can choose not to be in and out of hospitals, to lie to those I love, and to hate myself.

I’m choosing to live.

Step One

I’ve had a huge series of realizations today.
I am an addict. I’ve been in denial about that since I started cutting.

I can choose to get better or not.

I have a problem. I am not broken and helpless, and I am not doing ok.

There are only three possibilities in my future: I’ll recover, I’ll be locked up, or I’ll die.

This might be the last post for a while. I have no idea what’s going to happen, but please know that I have finally, finally stopped lying to the people around me and myself.

Coming clean

Today, I came clean with the staff (not all of them, just some that I was really close to) at my last place, my old therapist and my current one. I told them that my year of clean time from cutting is a lie, and that I’ve been cutting here and stuff.

More later.

words words, I hate myself, more words

My mom wasn’t there for family therapy, not even over the phone. It was a good session nonetheless, at least on the surface.
That’s all my life is lately. I can’t let myself feel. I can’t let others see. My mind is screaming at a million words a mile, and I can lie and hide and there’s no reason for anyone to ever know. There’s no reason, ever.
I cut on the Monday before last. I lumbered down to the local dollar store, and purchased several rolls of gauze, a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, and a twelve-pack of cheap single-blade razors. I would have liked to get single-edged blades, but I figured buying bandages and razor blades might look slightly suspicious. I sequestered myself into the bathroom with my supplies and my laptop and barely cut. I tried my left forearm for a little while, but couldn’t do more than break the skin. Seriously. I kept it bandaged for a day and you can’t even see where I cut unless you know exactly where to look. By the way, I had my laptop to read humorous articles on Cracked.com or other such websites while I hurt myself.
Pathetic.

I did a little better on my leg, but it’s nothing to write home about call a therapist about. I wore a knee sock when I left my room (just one, couldn’t be bothered to get a pair) and nobody knows. Well, one of my housemates started calling me “Ol’ One Sock”, but that hardly counts. I’m pretty sure that they think I’m masturbating when I’m cutting or dissociating, but I’ve talked about the dissociation and maybe they believe me? I don’t know. I’d rather they think I’m a stupid dirty fat slut than a stupid dirty fat slut that is a danger to herself.

Obviously, masturbating doesn’t make you a dirty fat slut. I have a weird attitude towards sex -shocking, I know- in that I can’t have it. I mean, I can feel sexually attracted towards someone, but I can’t kiss. It’s a trigger for me. I get extremely dissociated or panicky if I kiss someone on the lips. In fact, I’ve never understood the attraction of kissing. I have to look away when people kiss in movies, like a little girl who believes in cooties.

It’s so hard to think right now. There’s a chorus of ‘fat fat fat worthless stupid messy dirty ugly stupid fat useless fat monster needy’ that loops from now until eternity and I can hardly breathe for the bloodlust.

Anyways, after I hardly (self-) harmed, I bagged up all of the razors and threw them out. It’s a ritual I’ve started since I left my RTC – dispose of the weapons so I won’t do it again. But I always do.

 

Am I the only one? (also, mothers and illness)

Sorry that I haven’t written in, well, ever. This is the first time I’ve been clear-headed and full of pills in a long while. I’ve been really sick. For the last two or three weeks, I’ve been so sick that I haven’t been taking the life-giving stimulants and anti-depressants that allow me to function. As a result, I spent that time either asleep or eating. I wish I was exaggerating, but sadly, I’m not.

My schedule has been like this:

11:00 am – staff come in to check on me. Only half-awake, I respond in grunts.

2:00 pm – wake up, drag self to shower.

2:20 pm – fall back into bed, exhausted.

4:30 pm – wake up, eat whatever I see.

5:00 pm – fall asleep.

7:00 pm – wake up, eat as many calories as can fit in my face.

9:00 pm – sleep.

As you can see, there hasn’t been a lot of time when I’ve been conscious. Part of this is due to my sickness, a larger part is due to my sleeping disorder (narcolepsy, how I don’t love you), and a small but still significant part is due to the fact that I fucking hate thinking.

Lately, whenever I have a moment to consider the world and my place in it (ha, as if, I’m too shallow to care), my mind is flooded with memories. When the memories are bad, it hurts. That sounds immature, but that’s the only way I can express it. It causes me pain to think of all the times I’ve fucked up, all the times I’ve hurt those around me, and all of the missed opportunities.

It’s even worse when I have good memories, though. Instead of being, I don’t know, kept aloft by the good experiences I’ve had, I’m dragged down by them. It’s fucking horrible. I’ll think of the wonderful times I’ve had in Utah and I am filled with guilt and shame. Guilt for not caring enough about whoever I was with, and shame that I’m this fucking anorexic cutter mess who has no future. I feel trapped and I can’t win, I can’t get away from this pain, and I have no idea how to end it. I can only distract and avoid this for so long, and then I know I will resort to cutting or obsessing about what I eat.

Does anyone else have similar obsessive thoughts or memories?

 

 

 

 

More updates: my home visit wasn’t great. My parent fought so much that I felt like a little girl and hid in my room for most of a week. My mother switched* almost constantly. She’s in the hospital right now, not because she’s suicidal (although god knows that’s happened enough), but because she can’t really function.

I had a rather frustrating encounter with her. I showed her an inner dialogue I wrote. It was basically various parts of myself arguing about restricting and my self-worth. It was pretty intense stuff.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t sharing it with her, but with one of her alters. Whoever it was read it out loud.

In silly voices.

I’m going to talk to her about it in family therapy today, but it was wildly inappropriate and deeply invalidating.

*switched personalities. She has DID.

Lesser of Two Evils (106.0)

I’ve been cutting lately. Not a lot, but it’s been enough to keep me numb and withdrawn. I can’t keep cutting, because I know I will end up in a center of some sort. I can only hide cutting for so long. I need to lose weight. I need to be useful. I need to be smarter.I need to be coherent.

A hint of recovery? (105.5)

This morning, my dad woke me up and announced that he’d made waffles for me. I fucking love waffles. So I hopped out of bed and ran downstairs to have breakfast. I ate two of them with butter and syrup and I’m ok with it. They were delicious.

It’s been so long since I’ve been able to enjoy food without being deeply ashamed. I didn’t even think of calories until after I’d eaten, which is a first. Usually I mentally compare the calories of all possible meal choices.