I don’t know what I am tonight . . . or who I am. Sounds ambiguous. Good. “I have done it again, each year in every ten I manage it — Soon, soon the flesh The grave cave ate will be At home on me And I a smiling woman. I am only thirty. And like the cat I have nine times to die. This is Number Three. What a trash To annihilate each decade. ~ Sylvia Plath, “Lady Lazarus” I don’t know why but I love that poem. It resonates with me. I’ve trashed my decades. What good can I show for them? But as she begins by saying she’s done it again, so have I. I’ve done it twice now. Words won’t form to portray the unspeakable crime I’ve committed. But I’ve ruined myself and I can’t take it back. There’s so much I wish I could say tonight, but I am the loser in the internal struggle and I don’t get my wish. All I can say is I’m not okay, and I’ve said that so many times I should get a parrot to repeat it for me. I wish I could just say everything on my brain, but then Therapist would see it and want to talk about it and I can’t have that. It isn’t possible. I wish he hated me. It would be easy to quit him. I should quit anyway. I’m a waste. I was doing so much better up until the summer, and then I changed into something I can’t change back into. I’ve changed into a fragile, cracked, shell. Damaged without possible repair. I’ve changed into something bent on self-destruction, flirting with death, dancing with old demons. I’ll just say it. I’m starving myself again. Tonight for dinner was supposed to be an apple, and I’m afraid to eat it. I step on the scale several times a day when I find Husband’s hiding place for it. I thrive on the hunger. I want it. I need it. I don’t care so much about the weight; for me, it’s about the hunger. It’s about being clean and untainted. It’s about being whole and able to look myself in mirror each day. I made an appointment with a new dietician. While I like old Dietician, I felt all I was getting out of it was her weighing me, which I can do better than her on my own. So I’m seeing new Dietician a week from Thursday. I’m a bad example for my EDA group. I try to rally the troops by using phrases like “Go Team” and “100% Club” when everyone does well on their meal plan. Some have said I’m an inspiration. No. Not me. Just a hypocrite. I’m ready to reveal the bad thing I’ve done. Therapist suggested I think about speaking with the bio-brother. I forget why. I don’t know what there is to talk about, but I called him and asked him if he wanted to get a bite to eat. We made plans for a few days later, but I thought about it and it didn’t sit right with me. The whole day I was foggy and detached. I was not clued in to my surroundings. And I got really scared. I don’t want to talk with the brother. So I called him back to see if he would go to a therapy session with me and he agreed. I don’t know why he’s agreeing or what his agenda is, but the two of us are supposed to go to Therapist’s office the next Monday we have session. I hope I will feel safe and protected with Therapist in the room. Classes are over for Fall. I just have to take finals by Wednesday, and then I’m over for three and a half weeks. I am so excited. I’m also quite surprised I lasted the whole semester without any major breakdowns or any hospitalizations. I wish I knew what else I could write because I certainly don’t feel relief from writing this. I am still an enigma, born for distraction. I get to focus on how bad I feel so no one else has to feel how bad they feel. Then who’s going to come save me? Who will protect me from the agony of numbness? I hurt as bad as everyone else; I just don’t know why. I would feel better if I just had a friend to come sit at home with me, not try to talk with me, and watch a movie with me. Friendship with no pressure. I’m working on it. I guess. I regret everything I just typed, and I regret me.

“Dying

Is an art, like everything else,

I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.

I do it so it feels real.

I guess you could say I've a call.” ~ Sylvia Plath, Lady Lazarus

And so I do.