Wednesday, November 25, 2009

"From the outside looking in, you can't understand it. From the inside looking out, you can't explain it."

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, the dreaded day of anorexics everywhere. I don't really know why I dread it anymore. Mostly it's just depressing and lonely to be the only one not eating. I don't think anyone will even pressure me to eat anymore. Thanksgiving 2006 I stepped on the scale that morning and reached my low weight, a BMI of 14. I don't really remember feeling happy, just a little scared knowing that I couldn't stop this. Everyone tried to offer me food and feed me from their plates. Thanksgiving the next year, after constant revolving hospital doors and a month of residential, I was at a healthy weight, and was stuck at it thanks to zyprexa, even though I was starving myself. I sat in front of an empty gleaming white plate as everyone passed food around me and pretended like I wasn't there.

I don't know what this year will be like. Lately my mom has been trying to force food on me again, and part of me is relieved. There was nothing more lonely and hurtful than starving with everyone acting like it was okay.

I was reading through my old journal from around the time of my low weight. It's hard to remember that unhappiness. I'm that unhappy now, I guess, but still desiring to lose more and more weight, like that will get me somewhere.

Being forced into the hospital, and I feel like a caged animal, clinging to my eating disorder. Anorexia, like cutting, is my voice, and I'm terrified of losing it, of being smothered in my own body. I scream my defectiveness in blood and bones, starvation and scars. It is me taking my body back.

84 pounds. Where is perfection? I agonize over the lettuce I ate for dinner. Where is perfection? Don't be silly. You were never after perfection to begin with, not really. This is destruction. Perfection is when you die. I don't want to die, I just want to turn off my mind, get rid of this body. Punish, deny, I don't know why I can't stop.

I don't want to die from this. What a waste it would be. And people would be so mistaken, they'd think I'd died to be beautiful. They'd be so wrong. If only they knew that we don't even believe we deserve beauty. No. What drives this disease is so much stronger and darker and desperate, and it infects your mind until it's all you want and all that eats you alive.

My mind is consumed by the critisizing voice of my disorder. I measure my worth by the numbers on the scale and the empty space that grows around my arms, between my pressed-together fingers and thighs, all where a body should be, where I've disappeared.

I'm tired of the sadness in people's eyes when they look at me, of my little sister's obsession that I will die. Of lying, hiding, shutting people out. I want to be able to concentrate on things that matter. I want hands that don't shake, a head that doesn't spin when I stand. To sit in a chair without the pain of piercing bones. To come back to the world of the living.

Monday, November 16, 2009

"Words are never enough, just cheap tarnished glitter"

Words have always been hard for me. I guess not always. After around age 5. I have the words somewhere inside me, but when it comes to speaking about myself, I can't do it. I'm better than I used to be. I can now say basic things about myself in therapy, without feeling sick to my stomach for days on end. I started to make process. I can speak in a detached way about the person I present myself to be to the rest of the world. But other than that, my inner self is desperately protected. Partly because growing up, it was the only part of myself I had control of, that I could put boundaries on. But also, it's that my inner self is so fragile and damaged that to risk exposing it to someone else and having them shatter it would be too devastating to handle.

"Since what is inner is minimal and unstable, it cannot be exposed to the risk of a faulty reponse or some dimishment at the hand of others. These people have grave difficulties in telling others of their deepest feelings, their profoudest wishes, and their imaginings...When we expose those experiences, fantasies, and feelings that are paticularly personal and intimate, highly valued, and sensed as part of our core, there is a chance that the responses of others may invalidate, damage, or devalue this central aspect of self. Exposure risks the experience of shame. In extreme circumstances, shame is devastation, associated with a loss of a sense of personal worth."

-The Metaphor of Play: Disruption and Restoration in the Borderline Experience

Thursday, November 12, 2009

my sister

playing hooky

I'm skipping class today. Everyone is supposed to bring in an "ice breaker activity" to facilitate; you know, those stupid little games designed to make people more comfortable by making them uncomfortable in front of strangers. I hate that crap. Not to mention we've been in this class since september, and are most likely doing this now for "fun," which is even worse.

So I'm home, and now I feel obligated to like, do something with my day. I'm caught between wanting to go back to bed and doing something purposeful. Because I know I'll only feel more depressed if I sleep. So I'm sitting with my cats, listening to the Where the Wild Thing Are soundtrack, and trying to figure out what to do with myself.

I know I need to go through all my stuff in my old room and decide what to keep and what to throw away, but it's harder than I thought it would be. I haven't lived there in well over a year, but whenever I'd visit my mom and siblings, there was something comforting about having all my old stuff there, posters and CDs, stuffed animals; that room was my refuge for my teenage years. Where I spent hours blasting music, hoping someone would hear the lyrics that described what I was feeling, and get what I wanted to scream out so badly. Where I sat on the floor beside my bed, bleeding from stashed razorblades. Where I would play my guitar on friday nights, telling myself it was okay I had no friends, because music would give me a future.

But now we've lost the house. My dad stopped paying the mortage ages ago, and now the house is in foreclosure. Thank God for my older brother; he got my mom, grandmother, and sisters a house about 45-60 minutes away. My mom will finally have a place that's hers, away from my father. Our old house is a wreck anyway. it's so depressing to be in it. I just worry about my sister Sofia, being farther away, where I can't get to without a car. Maybe she can stay with me on weekends. Someone has to protect her from all the dysfunctional drama.

Anyway, maybe I'll go to Harvard Square and browse through the book store. Or sit at Tea-Luxe with a Vanilla Jasmine tea and do more research for my play therapy paper.

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

lies and other stories

The first thing you should know about me is that I am a sham.

I am a social work student preaching hope and self-care, who has razorblades in her bag and pink and white scars beneath her sleeves. If you talk about food i will join in but it's all just in theory; if you offered it to me I would pretend to nibble at it then throw it away when you weren't looking. If you ask me how I'm doing, I'll smile and tell you how well things are going, even though once I finally dragged myself out of bed that morning I spent the entire day thinking the solution to every problem on earth is just for me to die. I pass in all my homework on time, but usually it takes tears and blood to get through it, and if I'm late for work it's probably because I had to squeeze in that run on the treadmill, or because I felt faint and finally ate something, only to decide it needed to be purged. But really I'm fine, I have a future in front of me if I could just figure out how to get there and how to live and maybe if I could just be someone else and not this split person who is great! to the outside world, and despairing when she's alone, and so confused about what's underneath it all that she tries to write the truth in scars and bones.

The Untrustworthy Speaker

Don't listen to me; my heart's been broken.
I don't see anything objectively.

I know myself; I've learned to hear like a psychiatrist.
When I speak passionately,
That's when I'm least to be trusted.

It's very sad, really: all my life I've been praised
For my intelligence, my powers of language, of insight-
In the end they're wasted-

I never see myself.
Standing on the front steps. Holding my sisters hand.
That's why I can't account
For the bruises on her arm where the sleeve ends . . .

In my own mind, I'm invisible: that's why I'm dangerous.
People like me, who seem selfless.
We're the cripples, the liars:
We're the ones who should be factored out
In the interest of truth.

When I'm quiet, that's when the truth emerges.
A clear sky, the clouds like white fibers.
Underneath, a little gray house. The azaleas
Red and bright pink.

If you want the truth, you have to close yourself
To the older sister, block her out:
When I living thing is hurt like that
In its deepest workings,
All function is altered.

That's why I'm not to be trusted.
Because a wound to the heart
Is also a wound to the mind

-Louise Gluck

Sunday, November 1, 2009

I need a home for my heart and hands

I'm not enough. I am too much. I want everything and nothing. I'm scared to die and scared to commit to life. I'm caught in limbo, in the chasm between the conflicting sides of my fucked-up brain.

This isn't pro-eating disorder, nor is it recovery-focused. I'm not in recovery or even trying for it. This is just a blog of my experiences and feelings. It's just where I'm at right now.