My therapist loves the Backstreet Boys

Seriously, he won't shut up about it.

Am I here for a day or forever?

I have to write this before I forget it.  Damn I am REALLY coming clean about my messed up thoughts.

I thought of another reason why I might want people to think that I'm sicker than I am.  Or AM I. in fact, sicker than I think I am?  Both?  Although WANTING people to think that I'm sicker IS pretty fucked, so...wow I just confused myself.  ANYWAY.  So.  This came to me on the airplane (oh yeah, I'm home..wooo..).  I never had the kind of support that I do now in the past.  I never had actual friends, or at least more than one or two, who checked up on me, who cared about me, who checked up on me, who liked me for who I am, etc.  I guess what I'm thinking is, I have to look like I'm still sick because if I don't, people will stop checking up on me or paying attention to me.  I don't mean that I WANT that kind of attention, but since I was never used to people paying attention to me, I have been basking in its glory since I left TK.  So if I look like everything is great and I'm doing well, then I won't be a priority, and people will stop asking about me or supporting me, because they have plenty of other people who need support more than I do.  That makes sense to me, does anyone else follow?  Wow I really am 50 shades of fucked up.
Now, to make this clear, I KNOW that this is a false illusion created by the codependent beast in my head that craves attention no matter what the reason.  This beast still isn't convinced that things have changed, and so it needs me to latch onto others and keep them around at any cost.  RATIONAL brain knows that I don't have to try, not anymore, because people actually like me, and I don't need to prove anything to keep them around and liking me.  They will always be there, and as for the ones who do "leave" me, well, there is a reason behind it.  And that reason is NOT that it was done to harm me.  They're just not in my ultimate plan anymore.
Holy shit did that just come out of me?  Shit!  That came out of nowhere...I wonder if that knowledge will stay in my brain when that kind of situation inevitably arises.  Hopefully it will stay and can empower rational brain, so maybe together we can beat the beast.
That's enough stream of conscious brilliance for one night.  Agh I do NOT want to go back to work tomorrow.  Maybe if I whine about it enough it will go away.  That's how it works, right?

Tell her that I miss our little talks

I've been reading Jena's book Hollow all week, and I keep getting insight to my own...issues...as I read.  I read a part today that helped me to clarify what I [think] I was trying to get across last blog, and it also fits with that post's title, so I'm PRETTY sure that this could be the key.

"And why is normal such a bad word?  What does looking normal mean?"
"It means no one will know anything is wrong with me."
(pg. 186)

Is that it?  Is that the key to why I'm staying sick?  Is it because I WANT to, or I want people's pity?
Epiphany.  Maybe I want people to know that something's wrong with me...because if they don't, then how will they help me when hell breaks loose?  If they don't, then how could they respond when I go nuts?
I really don't think it's because I want attention.  I guess I want...predictability?  I have an issue with future predicting/catastrophizing, maybe this little bit of control makes me think that I will have someone, no matter what situation I'm in, who can take care of me?
This just popped into my head, I guess I'll have to do some thinking about it.  And soon, because I'm sure I'll be grilled on it at my session on Monday.  Hmm.

And now, a question.  I understand how to accept the past, because it's over and done with and it's not changing.  How do you accept the present?  This isn't even future predicting... Basically, a very dear friend of mine from TK is drinking herself to death.  She has no way out.  Her liver is failing; her stomach is distended to the size of a 3rd trimester pregnant woman.  Her symptoms exactly mirror my Aunt Noreen's before she died.  I don't even have time/money to visit her.  I can't just sit back and watch her disease kill her.  What do I doooooo :(

"Was I really seeking good...or just seeking attention?"

I'm not sure how my title fits, but it's from my favorite song in Wicked so deal with it.

((Side note because this just happened:  MY COMPUTER IS LITERALLY FALLING APART.  HOLY FUCK.))

Okay, back to business.  Doing nothing all day gives me a lot, a LOT, of time to think.  Facebook is great to keep up with all my TK friends; it also shows me how we are ALL struggling, all at the same time.  It's really hard to see, honestly my heart breaks every day after reading about someone else ending up in the hospital, someone self-harming, someone in intense emotional pain who has no one outside of TK to confide in or find relief from.  It makes my situation seem much more...ideal?  That if I have to suffer, it's not so bad that I do because I have an awesome support system, an awesome therapist, and awesome friends in recovery all over Chicago (and the world, I suppose).  I'm not writing this with the intention of comparing myself to anyone.  I guess I just know how people feel, having no one to understand their pain, because that's how my life was before treatment.  I had no one and my life was just a giant downward spiral going express to hell.  I know how that is, I've BEEN there.  So it hurts me so much to see these people whom I genuinely love in that same situation.  It hurts even more that there's nothing I can do about it.  I do the best I can, I lend support, I listen, I skype at all hours of the night, but I know, again from experience, that there's only so much that just talking can do.  It's not so bad for my friends here in Chicago, I can at least offer to see them or take them out or just distract them.  My heart HURTS.
So, on to my point for even starting this post.  I'm wondering how much I'm actually "suffering," and how much I just feel like I am because everyone I know is suffering.  My life, externally, is pretty fucking awesome right now (minus the living situation)...I have a job that I'm awesome at, even if I dislike myself for doing what I do, I have so many friends, so much support, my mom is awesome, Jim and Vicky are awesome, and I'm in fucking California right now.  I use the word "awesome" waaaay too much.  Anyway.  I'm having a hard time wrapping my head around this...do I need to differentiate between what I'm really feeling and what I think I'm feeling, or think I SHOULD be feeling?  Or is my situation completely valid and legit and I should stop questioning myself?  I know the answer to that...I'm not coming across clear enough, agh.
Come on brain, get with it.  This probably also won't be exactly what I want to say, but...am I thinking that I'm sick because I think I SHOULD be sick, given what everyone around me is going through?  That's closer to what I mean.  I think.  I DON'T KNOW!  :(  Maybe I think it's unacceptable to enjoy life when all my friends are unhappy?  No, I don't think that.  Do I?  Fuck me.  What the fuck is going on.  Usually writing my confusing thoughts down helps me clarify them, but this just has me even more confused.  And now I'm frustrated because I still don't know what's going on and I feel like I just wasted your time and mine by writing this.  I'm sorry you read it, whoever you are.  This is the end of my post.

Picture Post

Conquering the world...

Ireland, 2007

California, 2012

Sing for the laughter, sing for the tears

Blah.  BLAH.  I wish I could say I was having more fun/less stress on my vacation.  Unfortunately, my father insists that we only go on vacations where he can sit out at a pool doing nothing all day.  In other words, doing what he does all day at home, only in a warmer climate.  Well that's all well and good for him, but those of us contending with disorders know all too well that idle minds are the devil's playground.  I think I actually wrote a poem when I was hospitalized one of the many times with a line that read, "If idle minds are the devil's playground, mine is a fucking theme park."  I do my best writing when I'm angry/depressed/especially cynical.  I'm actually okay when I'm by the pool...I keep covered up or under water and work on my fantastic tan (thank God I didn't inherit my mom's pale Irish complexion).  I read, I listen to my music, I pontificate the meaning of life.  That's a lie, I just wanted to use the word "pontificate."  Maybe the sun blazes all my thoughts out of my head when I'm out there?  I don't know.  It's a minor reprieve from the rest of the day.  I wake up in the morning morning and I'm faced with food and my parents eating.  My mom keeps saying, "You have to eat something!  Have some fruit, have a bagel..."  I don't want to eat, but I also don't want my parents to think anything's wrong, so I eat.  And then I feel like shit about it until I get hungry again, which makes me feel like shit even more.
Then I have my blissful, brain-numbing couple of hours in the sun.  And yes, my tan is coming along nicely.  After I leave the pool, I go back up to my room before my parents (I get sick of the sun rather quickly), and I see our kitchen of food.  So I get in bed and sleep until I have to shower and get ready for--wait for it--MORE FOOD.
Every day this week I have acted on behaviors. I've gotten myself pretty drunk a couple times.  I keep purging.  I was so upset with myself yesterday after lunch that I made my dad pull over at some random gas station in the middle of the mountains so I could "go to the bathroom."  I don't like these behaviors, I don't like that they make me feel so much better, and I really don't like lying to my parents.
I'm slipping.  I'm slipping fast and hard.  Ed has taken over ALL logical thinking in my brain.  He has rerouted every thought to bypass the recovery-oriented part of my brain, and he just stands there, leaning against a bar, drink in his hand, smirking.  One of those smirks that people do that just makes you want to jack them in the face.
So, with all of that going on, now the worry center of my brain (that looks like Pain and Panic in Hercules when they're worried about Hades finding out that Hercules lived) is telling me that I'll be home in 3 days, and then I go back to work and therapy and everything outside of my head that brings me stress.
This post is annoying me.  It's so whiny and redundant.  Ugh.  I'm going to bed.

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.