Passionately apathetic

There’s nothing here but apathy. Please, come find me. I’m desperate. I keep pulling further and further away and I don’t know where I went wrong. My vision is getting darker and darker, more and more clouded. If I don’t recover from this suppression from emotion I fear what will take its place will lead us to a dangerous place. It is so lonely to have this diagnosis. Who can you tell? Even D. looks at us frighteningly sometimes, as if he doesn’t know how to handle or identify who is in charge.

The drive to feel something is being manifested in the eating. If we aren’t skipping, we are purging. 6x this week. It is a way to feel something. Physical and emotional pain. I’m tired of everything. I’m tired of seeing a therapist just so someone will care about my own little well-being. I don’t care about it; I need someone too, but it doesn’t do us any good. It breaks my heart. From my perspective, the first time we were in the hospital was the only time we felt anyone cared about us. Maybe that’s because we were around them constantly for 10 mos. On the down-low, sometimes I secretly wish I was back in the hospital if I could only stay long enough to feel cared about. Sick, isn’t it?

I’m so lonely with my secrets. I sensed conversation today about the walls coming down a little so the children could share their story. It hurt me because I just can’t go through this anymore. What’s even more pathetic is that I will write these words and the desperation and dejection I feel will never come alive through blogging. I wish I could write my poetry but it is still taken away from me. And nobody knows how I hurt and want it all over. Skydiving goes through my head more and more. This time I’ll really jump out and there will be no going back. We’ve tried it before but were always caught. We’re older and wiser, and I’m certainly more determined. Vanishing away sounds more faithful to our way of live: always deprived of love, always hungering for an identity, always lacking a heart.

Writing can be contraindicated. While I took a tranq after purging, I still feel the anger and resentment burgeoning. How can that equate to apathy? Somehow it does. It seems nothing matters now, despite false emotions. I wish I could blog positive messages to others and have them comment; that’s not where we’re at. I’m scared. It’s the final countdown.

We’re losing what we once had. Now we are chasing time into its suicidal pit. Why are we so stuck? Is it truly because we are starting to face some frightening issues as the Randy so naively suggests? Or are we really not facing what will make us better (as if we’re sick) because we know we can not and so we are fed up with the destiny? We once cared what Randy(“therapist”) thought. We once cared if he liked us; well, some of us did. We cared in a professional, therapeutic sense. We wanted to go to therapy, even though we hated and watched the clock every time it was our turn to come out. Now, it’s it all wiped away. The process means nothing to us. Therapy sessions are expendable now instead of the precious commodity they used to be. It is just as easy to tell Randy to f-off as it is to tell him what we did in school. I don’t like it but I truly feel I don’t have any control over it. While others might, I don’t have control over them; it’s more like they control me. I am a byproduct of their desire, voice, and direction.

I feel physically sick to my stomach and it’s all my thought. Do you know what’s sicker than inducing vomit, throwing food in the garbage so you won’t be tempted and then digging it out so you can eat it and throw it up. Yes, I did that. Not the first time. Years ago, I buried a bag of oreos in the dirt so I wouldn’t eat them. What did I do? You guessed it. Dug them up, brushed as much dirt off as I could, ate the oreos dirt and all, and threw it up. My eating habits are pretty habitual and safe right now. Unlimited coffee except at Starbucks and then it’s a tall, non-fat, skinny mocha latte. When I make my own coffee I use flavored coffee so I won’t be tempted with too much flavored creamer. I use three Splendas per cup, sometimes four if it isn’t sweet enough. I drink de-caff coffee after three so it won’t keep me up but I can keep filling up liquid. The others drink soft drinks or water with Fruit Punch Crystal Light. Sometimes we mix in Propel powder or Gatorade if we’re exercising because we get sick. For breakfast in the morning, we eat a package of 130 calorie oatmeal with seven grams of protein to help it stick to our ribs and plenty of fiber to keep us full longer. At lunch, we have an apple, more coffee, and tomato soup with a slice of cheese and Melba toast. For dinner it’s the same but we’ll eat an apple with it or an orange. We try not to eat after six because the later we eat the fatter we fill the next day. If we are starving so badly, we snack on something that is 100 calories or less like the popular packaged snack bags. True, we don’t always stick to this 100%. Sometimes we’ll have a bite of something to satisfy an urge. There are always hot Krispy Kreme donuts at work so we will get one, let other people see us eat a bite, and then throw the rest away in the hallway. We visit sites people might discourage, like ProAna when we get hungry. It gives us thinspiration to meet one of either two outcomes.

Why am I writing this crap down? He probably won’t read it. Probably won’t know how to access it because it will be on another page and he probably doesn’t know how to find archived blogs.

Honestly, we were thinking about the ultimatums he gave us last year and I think we are almost daring him to do it again. Something has to get us out of these doldrums and I know Tina would take action before he ever could. I see how desperate we really do feel since we aren’t even afraid to immortalize the twisted, sick nature of our soul. Again, apathetic. Don’t give a care. It’s just numbness, DETACHMENT, disinterest, indifference, pococurantism. Yet, we had our hair colored “natural” blond. I say that with all sarcasm. Ain’t nothin’ natural about this body.

That room continues to flip into the mind. I’ve homework to do and i haven’t done it, that’s how little i care. the thought of a “b” is of little concern. bring on the “c’s”. no worries, mate.

i feel cold. i find no meaning. i see the sunflower clock in the grandparent’s house and i want nothing to do with it. i want nothing to do with the nightstand in the little’s room by the window. it was next to the fucking bed. had purses hanging off the post. what happened to the person growing up that kept everything neat and clean and orderly? i need her back. this house is as messed up as we are. it is so unfair to the littles.

No one is around. They aren’t interfering. They are just letting me type except for a blurb here and there. I appreciate that. I guess no one wants to talk. I wonder how long it will take to delete this post? Too much has been said and there will be trouble.

We saw the psychiatrist today. She’s not as scary as she once seemed and we are more willing to work with her than the previous jerk off that called himself a psychiatrist. I had a few choice names for him. Today, the psychiatrist upped some medication because nothing has helped the anxiety. How soon till we tire of her? We are actually grateful to her because she allowed us to go home when we were hospitalized last summer and extremely suicidal. She took a big risk letting us go. If it’s a year later, would any claim she should have detained us and blamed her for letting us go if we were to die?

what the fuck is wrong here? so much is being said. side effect from apathy. just doesn’t matter. no one can touch us before Tina beats them to the punch. This is our version of shock therapy. I think we are trying to force us to give a damn by giving away some of our self-destructive behaviors and thoughts. As if anyone would listen.

Talk to me!

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