I'm Your Hate When You Want Love

Right now, today, I am completely bogged down my my eating disorder.  My dad has a TON of frequent flyer miles left over from when he traveled a ton at his old job many years ago, so we got to fly to Palm Desert California FREE.    It was pretty sweet.  First class, however, gets a meal on a long flight.  They served this disgusting nasty vile thing called steak, and despite how bad it was, I ate it.  I ate that and I left the nice healthy salad.  I ate the bread, and I left the green beans.  I felt awful after, it was like I couldn't stop.  Addicted to nasty shit apparently as long as it's not healthy for me.  Then they brought out a nice oatmeal cookie, which I ate half of, then started crying and gave it to my dad.  I cried so hard, so ashamed of what I did.  Not even the mimosa helped me out (yeah, I drank).  So I went to the gross airplane bathroom and cried more because recovery was fighting Ed, and I was caught in the middle of the battle to purge or to sit with all this food in me.  I was able to resist.  When we got to the place, we checked in and then had to wait 3 hours for our rooms to be ready.  With nowhere to go, we sat by the pool, where I had another drink.  Drink and a half if you include what I finished of my mom's.  We ordered appetizers to share.  Did I eat from the veggie tray?  No.  I ate a corner of the quesadilla instead.  All I could see were beautiful people walking around in their swimsuits or tanning by the pool, and all I could think of was how I am the fattest one here.  This isn't like a 90lb girl thinking she's fat, no matter how convinced Ed has her, this is TRUE!  So I cried more.  Finally we got into our villa and I laid in bed while my parents got groceries for the week.  Then we went out to dinner (SO MUCH FUCKING FOOD FOR ONE DAY) and got pizza.  I didn't cry this time, because Ed took over recovery, and kept me reassured.  I ate a lot.  Then I came back to the villa and broke my 4 month streak, and I purged.

Hey, I'm your life, I'm the one who takes you there.  Hey, I'm your life, I'm the one who's there.  They, they betray, I'm your only true friend now.  They, they'll betray, I'm forever there.

Everyone keeps calling me brave.  They tell me how brave I am for fighting, how strong I am for choosing life.  I don't feel brave.  I feel afraid, SO afraid, like the girl who used to be strong is now cowering in a corner crying and trying not to be seen.  That little girl is really glad that Ed is here to take control.  I don't feel strong.  I feel incredibly weak, actually.  The little girl is glad that she doesn't have to fight right now, and she's feeling so much shame for NOT fighting.  It weighs heavy, so heavy.  It's too much, and at some point she decided to give up and let Ed take over her life.  I'm not really talking about myself in third person...kinda.  Right now, recovery Julie IS that little girl in the corner.  By the way, it's a dark corner in a brick alley covered in soot, and it's raining.  Hard.  Anyone would run from that image, right?  The picture I see so clearly, however, is enticing.  That little girl is crying in the dark and the rain and the dirt, but she's also really skinny.  Like, skeletal.  This is such a dichotomy in my head, and I know the "correct" answers, I know what the difference between disorder and recovery is.  It's not confusion I'm feeling.  It's mostly, I think, shame.  Like how you feel after you tell a lie to a really close friend.  It eats at you until you either give in and cause chaos, or your friend finds out and calls you on it, causing chaos.  Once you've told that lie, there's no ideal conclusion to the situation.  If you have a soul and a conscience, that is.
I was reading Hollow by Jena Morrow on the airplane (REALLY bad choice given my state of mind) and she talks about how her first memories of feeling fat were at age 3.  I remember being about 4, when I went from a children's size 6 to a 6X.  I'm not even sure I know what the X stood for, I just remember thinking, "I'm supposed to be a size 6.  6X means I'm bigger than everyone else.  And I'm not taller than them, so it must mean I'm fatter."  Shit, dude.  That's the little girl that cowers in the dark alleys of my brain.  I feel so bad for her.  I both want to help her get better, and I want to look like her so at least we can be skinny together, no matter how we feel, we'd at least look good.

You, you're my mask, you're my cover, my shelter.  You, you're my mask, you're the one who's blamed.  Do, do my work, do my dirty work, scapegoat.  Do, do my work, for you're the one who's shamed. 

Hey, I'm your life, I'm the one who took you there.

Hey, I'm your life, and I no longer care.

Don't be a drag, just be a queen

Came out (bisexual) on facebook.  This is the part where I down some valium to cope with the fallout.  I'M JUST KIDDING.  But seriously....this could be a shitstorm.  Fuck...courage is hard.

A little more action, please.

My meds are kicking in so I'll keep this short.  I've got a lot to think about.  These "daymares."  Coming to terms with my past, in retrospect, was much easier.  The past is done, it is absolute, it's not changing.  It's the future that I'm afraid of.  So many possible scenarios with so many possible outcomes, ugh.  And it's not something that I can predict the result of.  For example, if you're in a plane that's crashing down, the result is you die.  Morbid, I know.  But absolute.  This...I don't know.  And I can't know, I will never know until the present catches up with the future.  I know that I can't change anything, and that fretting about it only brings me anxiety and fear.  So how do I make my subconscious shut up?

There are other things on my mind too but I need to sleep.  Gotta get up early tomorrow to take care of a shit ton of crap to do before my trip.  Holy shit my room...I don't even know where to start.  How can I pack clothes when I can't find the right ones because they're ALL OVER MY FUCKING FLOOR!?  Fuck.  Fuck fuck.  Oh well, no sense in worrying about it now, right?  Ugh.  Goodnight friends.

Skyfall Is Where We Start

The majority of my blog titles are song lyrics, I decided I like that.  I am so fucking exhausted.  Worked 9 hours today!  It was a good day...good to finally be back for a full shift, and while my feet are screaming all WTF WHY DID YOU DO THIS TO US, I did awesome today.  I FUCKING RULE AT MY JOB.  2 of my repeat clients came in because they heard I was back :)  I sold almost 1000, on a fucking TUESDAY.  I need people to open credit cards, that's the ONLY part I'm lacking in.  I hate asking people to do that!  I make such awesome relationships with my clients, and once I have to ask about that, all of the friendly comfort of the relationship is gone, and boom, I'm just another annoying sales clerk trying to jack people out of their money.  All business, right?  Ugh.  I understand why we have to do it...doesn't mean I like it.  I also got to bust out some of my Spanish skills.  I'm glad I at least knew how to get out maquillage, con colore o claro, and sin grasa.  And although I worked at TCF 3 years ago, I still get banking Spanish stuck in my head.  Como quiere su dinero?  Qual es su calle?  Codigo secreto, por favor!  And my most used Spanish phrase--MAS DESPASIO POR FAVOR!!!
I wonder if my GBF is out of rehab yet.
A good friend of mine from TK is back in the hospital :(  I'm going to try to visit her on Thursday before I leave the state.
This is clearly the stream of conscious rambling of the exhausted.
SO, on that note...Good night!
Until next time, take care of yourselves...and each other!
(I think it's hilarious when people tell me that that's a cute line...if only they knew what it was from...)

Why I Tell My Story.

Hey folks.  Hope you all had a good Monday.
I was thinking about writing this post a while ago and I kept forgetting, but something happened today that seemed like a little reminder from God :)
People often ask me why I am so open about my disorders, experiences and traumas.  They ask how I could possibly talk so freely about the horrors that have happened to me and the hell I've been through, because it simply must re-traumatize me every time.  False.  It's still not a breeze to talk about it, but it has become much easier.  It has become a living tribute to how someone can hit rock bottom in the depths of hell, and still push to reclaim life.  More significantly, to me, it has become so very important.  Today, a friend opened up to me about her eating disorder, kept secret from the world, and her struggles with it.  She remarked that she was so grateful (paraphrasing) to have someone to talk to who understands, without judgement.
It is so important to have someone to talk to about your struggles!  Even if it's not treatment, not a therapist.  SOMEONE who understands can make a world of difference.  Every day we hear stories about people who have suffered mercilessly with depression, bullying, eating disorders, body image disorders, trauma, and so much more, who have died and taken their lives because they had no one to talk to about it.  Every time you see it on the news, you hear friends and family saying, "We had no clue, this isn't like her at all..."  How well do you think you know everyone around you?  Every time I have been hospitalized, someone has said "Why?  She's always so happy and upbeat!"
And so, to my point.  Why I tell my story.  I no longer carry shame from my past; my depression, my self-harm, my eating disorders, my sexual abuse and my rape.  I used to be disgusted with myself, finding relief only in hurting myself or making myself look as ugly as I felt.  I thought I was damaged goods, that no one could ever love someone with so much shit in her past.  But what I've learned is that my past is just that--the past.  Things were done to me, things happened to me, and diagnoses were thrown at me.  They don't define who I AM.  Not anymore, not ever.
I tell my story not only for my benefit, but for the hope that it may show others that there is no shame in talking about their stories.  People need to know that there IS life after suffering.  I found it, and it's the most amazing thing.  It's more amazing than any life I could ever have imagined.  There are nowhere NEAR enough resources for women to find a safe place to open up.  Especially since so many disorders are surfacing at such young ages now.  The fact that people are aware of this dilemma means that we are mildly heading in the right direction, but people are still finding these things out much too late.  I went to treatment with so many girls who had eating disorders, traumas, self-harm and abuse very early in life, many disorders manifesting very young, around 10 years old.  They didn't know what they were doing or the reasons behind it until they were older, weighing 70 pounds and wasting away, or with scars covering their bodies, or attempting suicide.  In the worst case scenarios, succeeding.  This must stop!
I am not happy with the things that have happened to me, but I am PROUD to be where I am today.  I met so many women at TK who went through hell, and I kept thinking, "I had no idea.  If I was her, I would be dead from what she went through."  The truth is, I AM one of those women, one who figuratively lied down on the highway and prayed to be taken away from this life.  And here I am, writing my story, unashamed.  If I can inspire ONE person to come forward with her story to seek help before it is too late, then I have succeeded.
Please please PLEASE, if you are struggling, TALK to someone.  Talk to me, talk to family, talk to a therapist.  Call an anonymous hotline.  Get. Help.  While there are not enough, there ARE resources and there IS help out there, you simply have to ask.
If anyone wants to talk, please tell me.  I may not always be mentally/emotionally available to be much help, but it's something.  Something is better than nothing; better than suffering in silence, as I did for 20 years.
Please, be kind to yourselves and be kind to each other.

You may not believe me now, but please never forget: YOU ARE WORTH IT.

xoxo <3

Life's No Fun Without A Good Scare

Fitting title, as it's almost Halloween, and it has to do with nightmares.  I've told a couple people (aka facebook) about my "daymare" problem.  I don't see Mark til Wednesday, so I'll tell him then.  For now, it may be therapeutic to get the images that haunt my mind OUT of my head and onto this plain white space.
Most of the things running through my head aren't necessarily about the perpetrators of my trauma, but about people and events surrounding that person.  As Thanksgiving approaches (yeah I know it's far away, tell that to my PTSD), there is a lot of panic growing inside me.  My family is wonderful. Thanksgiving has always been the best.  Until the memories resurfaced, and the subconscious terror emerged in my dreams.  Last year was the first year it was truly horrible, at least since the years that the trauma took place.  For those who don't know, we have these family friends who have kids, and one of them sexually abused me for at least 3 years, starting when I was around 8 or 9.  Last year, to get through it, I drank 2 bottles of wine and became this gregarious, insane tornado of insults and inappropriateness.  Post-TK, I know that even though I never had a problem with drinking, I can't do it anymore, or it will rapidly replace the other behaviors I am trying to get rid of (self-harm, ED, etic).  I also know who I am now, and that I don't need to resort to some crazy nutcase who has to be the center of attention no matter who gets thrown under the bus in the process.  That's NOT the kind of attention I want.  Not anymore, anyway.  So there are 2 of my reliable fallback "coping skills" that I can't/won't use anymore.  Not if I can help it.  I don't even know if he'll be there, he wasn't last year and I got drunk and stupid, I don't know if I'll get through it if he is there.
So, daymare.  I keep getting these flashes, these future predicting/catastrophizing flashes, where he comes in with his family, and everyone starts screaming at me, telling me I'm a liar and it never happened, while he stands in the back smirking.  I think one of my biggest fears about opening up about my story is that someone won't believe me, and will invalidate the shit out of me by spreading it around, or screaming at me.
The other flashes are worse.  I started having these ones while I was living at Mag, as my TK discharge date and my return to work date got closer.  I keep having this image of my rapist coming into my shop.  There's one flash where he just comes in and we make eye contact, and the rest of the flash includes me breaking down in the spa room, heaving, convulsing and sobbing, immobile on the floor, while all of my coworkers rush in and just stare at me on the floor.  The other one, like my Thanksgiving flashes, includes the rapist coming in with an army of everyone who was at C's apartment that night (all of whom I can, unfortunately, still see in perfect detail in my head).  They all come in screaming at me that I'm a liar, and I'm ruining other people's lives, and I made everything up for attention and they're going to sue me for defamation of character, or some legal term that they scream at me in my head.
I have to deal with intense anxiety now every day, before every shift, and the night before I work, which keeps me from sleep, and aids my nightmares when I sleep.  So I can't stop wondering...what if he DOES come into my shop?  I don't have a clue how to prepare for that possibility.  I told Mark this fear once, I think when I was still on Pine...he said, "So what if you see him?  Are you going to keep giving him power over you?"  Obviously I went NO but the scared little girl in my head keeps screaming.  I don't know how to take THAT kind of power back.  It's not something I can cope with through exposure therapy, I just don't know.  Even outside of the flashes, that thought terrifies me.  :(
So that's what's going on in my head right now.  Maybe my session on Wednesday will bring some insight.  Fingers crossed.

Nobody Puts Baby in a Corner.

What up.  Remember that time I said I was super busy but would update as soon as I could?  That was 2 months ago?  Oh...my bad.  Where to begin?
I finished my programming at TK this past Wednesday, the 12th.  I "graduated," as it were.  MOST EXPENSIVE GRADUATION EVER.  Seriously, in the time I was there I could have paid for 3 years at Wesleyan.  But AND you know what?  WORTH IT.  I wish I could fit my entire experience in this little post, but I figure most of you don't have another 18 weeks to read about my rehab escapades.
For those of you new to my blog, I will tell you why I was IN rehab (rehab is easier than saying "residential treatment center" over and over).  I am not an alcoholic, and I am not an addict.  I don't drink anymore, and aside from a few disappointing romps with pot, I have never touched drugs.  Most people think that that's all that rehab is, and so those most people are very quick to judge and make assumptions.  WRONG!  I was at Timberline Knolls for many reasons.  First I'll rattle off the official psychomumbojumbo diagnoses.  I suffer from major depressive disorder, type II bipolar disorder, borderline personality disorder (this one explains a LOT), generalized anxiety disorder, self-injury, an "unspecified" eating disorder (aka bits and pieces of all the finer parts...), and post-traumatic stress disorder from over 20 years of physical, emotional and sexual abuse, as well as a brutal rape less than 2 years ago.  So I hope that, for anyone who DID come here to judge me, you're thinking, "Oh shit, I'm a terrible human being."  You're not terrible, just a flawed human.  If you continue to judge me, well...I know that only my God can truly judge me, and have fun when he's judging you. :)
So that's that.  I was residential at TK for 2 months.  Then I did PHP there from home for 6 weeks.  Home, however, was NOT an environment conducive to my recovery, so I then moved to Magnolia House (Mag), which is PHP but you live at a house near TK, so you have more structure and more support.  I lived at Mag for 4 weeks.  Home is STILL very far from "awesome," but I suppose I'm far more equipped to handle it now than I was 10 weeks ago.  I start IOP tomorrow at Good Samaritan for 2 weeks, and I'll be back at work in 1-2 weeks.  Life is comin', and it's comin' fast.  I don't know, and I don't WANT to know, where I'd be if I hadn't been lucky enough to go to TK.  I shudder to think of the alternative...
Anyway!  So I thought I'd pick this thing up again as a type of recovery blog.  I need to get back to this journaling thing, and I'm too lazy for manual writing, so here I am.
This blog is really interesting...it's amazing to look at all of my posts from the midst of depression/suicidal ideation.  I don't want to think about those times, but I need to remind myself of where I was in order to see where I'm going.
To close...TK was the best decision I have ever made. EVER.  I dropped almost ALL of my past friends right before I went in to treatment, and came OUT of treatment with the best friends I could ever have imagined.  Friends who like ME.  Not my car or my money or my people-pleasing codependent tendencies, but ME.  Honestly, it's WEIRD.  These people know EVERYTHING about me...and still want to be around me!  BIZARRO.  So, TK, thanks for the memories.  I've finally gone a couple days without crying, yay!  And I haven't called or texted Mark begging to let me come back since Thursday!  I can't wait for alumni nights, where I get to see (almost) everyone I love so dearly.  So to TK and everyone I met there: Thank you.  I owe you my life.
God bless and good night.
And until next time, take care of yourselves...and each other!