Hate days like this. We are so sad we don’t know where to begin. Don’t know what to do when we get like this. The inertia is so pronounced there is nothing to be done. Our heart is broken and visions of the past perform before my eyes. Our secrets percolate under an eating disorder. We need help. We need for someone to do for us what we can’t do for ourselves. We want the reward, but our heart is too heavy to let us seize it. Like this, we shall surely perish in our colored secrets.
It’s official. Tomorrow, February 2, 2009 I start a partial hospitalization program. Bugger. This is the same program I entered last year who said I needed a higher level of care and didn’t believe in D.I.D. They can’t treat me. How do they propose to get my alters with the anorexia to eat if they don’t believe I have alters? My one saving grace is my psychiatrist believes in it, but I’ve only seen him twice; hardly a relationship built on trust yet. On the plus side, one of my teens thinks he’s hot. Go figure.
I’ve decided I want a tattoo. I guess the pink hair of 2008 wasn’t rebellious enough or the piercings of ’06 and ’07. 2009 is looking ripe for another one as well. The teens are rambunctious. I think we are all feeling claustrophobic and trampled on right now because NO ONE wants to go to this damn program. It’s quite hard, as anyone with an eating disorder might imagine. The lines are drawn and the battle begun. One side refuses to comply with any procedure, policy, or course of action set by the hospital. The other side knows the stakes and the fervent need to gain weight, get on track, work on trauma issues, and take care of business. Before tomorrow was firmly set, we could tell we were losing weight. Even our “skinny” jeans were falling off and belts didn’t have enough holes in them. Now that we know our resolve will be tested by the mean ‘ole dietitian tomorrow, a review of our body makes us see fat where there probably is none and curves we thought we had denied. Ironic the mind tricks that tease one.
After our intake at the hospital, we came home and was too tired to breathe. So, I put in the DVD of “The Notebook“, my favorite movie. D. always knows when I’m in a bad place because I always play this movie when I’m sad or depressed. I love the movie. I want to move to Charleston, South Carolina, United States so badly I can taste it. I’ve visited it twice and have fallen in love with everything about it: the history, the culture, the coast, the locals, the schools, etc. It’s my goal to get there one day. I have a bangle bracelet I always wear that has a palmetto tree and a crescent moon on it; the bracelet gives me hope that things will get better and I’ll make it to Charleston and be an awesome eight grade Language Arts teacher. Pipe dreams.
I am hungry. The pangs of an empty stomach provide solace and comfort. They make me feel clean, unsoiled, faultless, and pure. I know in my head that food can’t make you dirty, but when I eat, I feel disgusting, dirty, nasty, and worthless to name a few adjectives. That’s why a shower before or after food is imperative. I must cleanse the filth that I have become.
It pains me to write that because I think of my littles and I get angry for them. One of my littles holds parts of the e.d. and I would never consider her dirty. She was a victim and I’m so tired of all of us revictimizing ourselves because it’s more tolerable and it’s what we know. I know where the blame goes, so why do we hash ourselves to death?
As we were on the elliptical machine today I kept thinking how stupid, how pointless, how senseless to keep pushing us like that…out of breath, back pain, knee pain, chest pains, pain under the right rib cage, etc… There are very good reasons for us to have a life. True, we live in a sub-par house that is in constant need of repairs we are ignorant to undertake, we live paycheck to paycheck, have no savings, and I’m out of work. However, there are five good reasons to try to find reasons to make it through just one more day: a husband( I shan’t sing his praises but I hear good things about him and he’s put up with my tirades for more than a single moon), 2 god-daughters (twins, age 13, who would be lost with out us), and two very beautiful dogs that know when to crawl into my lap to absorb my trickling tears.
That should be enough, but it’s not. Right or wrong, it only feels good when it hurts, and now, our voice has been taken away. Sufficiently.
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