I always spoil things good. It’s Valentines Day. It is supposed to be a day dedicated to love, Cupid, chocolate, and all things immoral. It’s true origin begs to differ. No bother. For me, it is the half year anniversary D. and I always celebrate. Our real anniversary is August 14, but we always celebrate our half years, too, so today we were supposed to exchange anniversary gifts and go out. He had a day planned to go paint pottery and go eat at a restaurant he thought was safe. That’s an oxymoron. Is there any “safe” restaurant out there?
Doesn’t matter. Me being the good anorexic that I am, I was exhausted, deprived of sleep, irritable, cranky, and rattlesnake-mean. I lay down to pull myself together. A little “me” time. I ended up falling asleep and when I woke up several hours later, I had ruined D.’s plans. Fuck me. I hate me.
However, it is a good lesson. It is so true that when you have an eating disorder you have no other relationships than the e.d. I sacrificed a day with my spouse because I was too exhausted and petulant to go out. So we stayed in and I hate staying in. How do you burn calories just staying in your house under the glare of your husband. So I decided I would eat “normally”, whatever the hell that is, so that I could startle my metabolism, kick start it, and shove it into burning calories at a higher rate. My stomach wasn’t used to that much food. Made me ill. But I didn’t throw up…at least until dinner. I ate dinner and knew as I was eating it I could consume it without worry because I would offer to the porcelain bowl later. And so I did. I consumed two more of those apple dumplings that are so rich you have to be sick.
So I sit here, typing, caught in a purgatory where nothing will make me happy. I just want to drink myself to sleep, wake up tomorrow, and start all over. I’ve already told D. I’m working out and not to come with me. I can’t let him get in the way of my work outs. It’s why I hate the weekends. I have to tailor what I do to hide things from him.
By any regard, it looks as if I am going back to residential treatment. I don’t know when. I just need to get the finances in order and wait for a bed to open. Reading this blog one would think I don’t want recovery but that is far from the truth. I’m being held hostage by this eating disorder and I’m hoping the structure, therapy, and diligence of the nutritionist will help me find my recovery voice again.
I do want recovery. This is no way to live. In August, D. and I will have reached a significant milestone and I want to be healthy and happy when it comes. I deserve better than an eating disorder. My parts deserve better. We don’t need to revictimize ourselves and perpetuate the abuse of others by not eating, purging, or over exercising.
Someone inside wants to cook again without repercussions and fallout. Angie wants to go back to school and get back on the President’s list. The littles want to color and we presently don’t feel happy enough to color.
Not happy enough to color? Imagine a child sitting at her table with crayons and a coloring book but with big, fat, weepy tears woundedly trailing down her sweet face, blurring her vision of the coloring page. That’s what my child parts are experiencing.
I found a new album on my iPod. I didn’t buy it. I’ve looked back over the e-mails that iTunes sends and it was purchased last week. It is a rock/alternative album. The lyrics are about death and suicide. I can only imagine one of my teens purchased it or my suicidal alter. It is very disconcerting when they pull stunts like that.
I shouldn’t be judgemental. We are all going through the shit. We just need to hang on. Please, help us hang on. We need to get to treatment soon. I hear voices in my head say, “What does it matter”, but it does matter. It has too. I found more patches. Someone is stockpiling them.
I feel so split, severed, and separated from my internal family. Disconnected and broken. Detached and disjointed. It’s my fault. I’m not dialoguing with parts. There is no internal communication. The only writing taking place is what is put in the blog. I have only myself to blame. But I can get back. I close my eyes and click my heels three times and chant, instead of “There’s no place like home,” I chant “It will get better, it will get better, it will get better.”
I’m so tired; I can be nothing but done.
“It will get better. It will get better. It will get better.” click, click