Fucked up, for better or worse- This is me, baring all- Part 2

depression

I said I would add to my post from yesterday, that may or may not happen.

My explanation- I have been sucked back into my eating eating disorder so quickly and so insanely more powerful than it has ever been. Its been days since I have put anything into my system. My behavior has resulted in physical complications, damaged friendships, and a lost relationship with the man I thought I would spend the rest of my life with. I am also psychoaffective and I know that starving myself effects not only how my brain works but how my medications work. I met with my dietitian this morning at a coffee shop and because of my absolute unwillingness to change any of my behavior I got walked out on. What’s sad about this is that my mind didn’t say “Wow I should really start to change what I’m doing.” instead it was “Fuck this, fuck them, fuck life.” So I’m going to have a lay in bed all day but will add more to my page if I feel up to it.

Turning a new corner

I can sit here tonight and say how proud and amazed I am by my recent choices and attitude adjustment. Getting knocked down hard several times last week created a tough pill to swallow and I was left with two choices, stay in my self pity and sabotage my recovery with the imploding guilt and anger that was only growing faster than that of an
engine of a 747 aircraft . My other choice was to get into acceptance about the changes and to chose to put my everything, every particle of myself, into recovery no matter how uncomfortable it gets because when I look at the big picture, the pain and suffering I have caused with my eating disorder that I have endured for the past 15 plus years does not equate to the pain of recovery and I also believe at least in this moment that by being in recovery and staying in it I will be relieved from the bondage of self and that my difficulties and crawling out from some of the deepest canyons again again will give me ability to give back and that chance to change lives. I know that despite my challenges and setbacks if I can continue to take the next indicated step, trust others, and keep a strong connection with others absolutely anything is possible and that the dreams I have can become reality. When I stop questioning and judging my head becomes free of the darkness and the clouds begin to fade. I’ve been sick for so long that being in recovery can be and is terrifying. Being well changes so many things and even though they may be good things they scare me because it’s new and it’s change. I’m afraid I’m not capable of having a healthy life and that if I try like I am right now and I begin to stumble or even fall I will use it as proof that I can’t live the good life. I tried, I failed, I’m fucked. But my wise mind knows that there will be bumps along the way and they might be really big at first but the longer I stay connected the smaller the bumps will be and the longer the joy will last.

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This Fight Will Go On

I am on my knees begging life for an easier road because I’m losing my grip by the second. This pain that fills every tiny crevice of my mind and body is so agonizing that even the best hit of heroin couldn’t touch the outermost surface. How do you not become so intensely and utterly hopeless when you are stuck in a world of torture with a loss about where to go to next or if there is a place to go to next. Do I have to continue to endure this pain that only gets worse through time. Its like as time goes by the blanket of pain, fear, anger, and depression keeps getting more complex and grows another inch each time it wraps its self around me. I can learn new ways to unwrap myself or take new meds or get rid of yet another addiction in hopes that this will allow for some relief…. it doesn’t, not this time. I can’t get out of bed, I can’t eat, can’t talk- I am defeated- I am done- I can’t fucking fight anymore, but I do again and again- I don’t get it. My life is so unbelievably hopeless, leading nowhere but south but I can’t or wont give up. Typing this at this very moment has me full of rage when I step back and look at all the no wheres my life is leading its way to WHY THE FUCK DO I KEEP GOING I imagine how pleasant the taste of gunpowder would be as I held my fathers rifle in my mouth- that would take my pain away and then they say you have to think of the others in your life but I can say without a doubt that MY pain is far beyond what my friends and family will experience. I’m not with my fathers rifle though I’m with me and my thoughts and feelings and as much as I despise them at this current moment somewhere deep inside me I have hope and no matter how small it may be- maybe a napkin compared to my enormous blanket of pain- its still something. It has my hands moving over this keyboard getting the nastiest thoughts I have inside out into the open instead of on the trigger of a gun. It has me continuing to fight instead of throwing in the towel on this fight of life. I feel a little different now and I don’t know which part of it has created that feeling but something has occurred in the past thirty minutes of music blasting, chain smoking, and putting my soul on paper. TFWGO (This Fight Will Go On)
Thank you to the one who suggested I write tonight- you have helped change many things in the matter of hours

From an almost deadly suicide attempt to gratitude

It was the afternoon of July 3rd, 2013 and I became certain of two things while sitting in the aggravating stop and go of San Diego traffic, the first being that I could no longer hold on to this life of mine, I could not bear another moment of this fucking madness; the second was that I was going to put an end to the unendurable suffering once I reached home. With what seemed like a lifetime I finally reached home and unlike the times before when I’ve had these suicidal ideations I had no thought of the sadness, pain, and anger an act such as this would cause my family and friends, these thoughts have always brought me to a place where I reach out for help and then I’m usually placed in some psychiatric hospital until the waves of darkness subside or I’m medicated enough that it dulls the pain just enough to get by. This time my thoughts were on making sure everything was right and that my plan would work; I would take handfuls of medication that I by chance had just refilled the day prior and I would drift off to sleep for the last time. I had no feeling of fear while doing this or thinking about it, I had made my mind up and I was certain it was the proper choice for not just myself but for the sake of others as well. I was quite aware that I had become and was a financial and emotional burden on my parents. I had lost friends because I was “too much” and I was exhausting to be around. I myself could not even look in the mirror and that was on days I actually managed to get out of bed. At times it was excruciating to just breathe because this torment that was occurring in my brain and mind was also sucking every bit of physical energy I had left in my body. This time with almost a sigh of relief I poured the first bottle of medication into my hands, swallowed, poured, swallowed, pour, swallowed….and then it all goes blank. My next memory is of choking on a breathing tube that had been placed several days prior while the paramedics intubated me on my living room floor as I laid unresponsive and barely breathing. My next memory was of being in a wheel chair in a hallway that I was quite certain was still on planet earth… It didn’t fucking work. The next several weeks are a blur, I was transferred to several different psychiatric hospitals, and eventually gained enough of my sanity and clarity back that I played the game and bluffed my way out of the hospital (when you’ve been in enough of them you know what to say and what not to say to get out.) During this time I never experienced a moment that I felt any sort of gratitude for surviving only guilt for attempting. I had become aware that I was in pretty serious condition at one point but it didn’t change the lens I was using to look through at my life and life in general. It wasn’t until a few weeks had passed and I heard a loud knock-knock at the door. When I answered a tall man with a mustache and in police uniform stood before me and asked me a series of questions that I nervously responded to and quickly realized he was looking for me but why? He informed me that he was part of the team that responded to the 911 call placed with barely enough time, that my oxygen levels were almost nonexistent, and that even the paramedics on the scene started to “freak out.” The officer told me that they didn’t think I was going to pull through and he stopped by on that day to see if I actually did. This moment and this conversation is when my brain shifted just enough that I could see my life under different lighting. I now felt that this life of mine was something I needed to take more seriously and that for some reason I survived and I don’t have to always feel like I have a purpose but I know I’m not alone in my story and that if I can, in any way, help ease the pain and suffering of another then I’m glad I’m still here.IMG_1245

What if your brain is the abuser in the relationship?

I sit here tonight trying to, in any way, distract myself from the pain that radiates from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. The past several weeks have been quite turbulent and I feel like I’m getting pushed out into the ocean and no matter how hard I swim I get no closer to land or safety. I’m tired, I’m lonely, I’m scared, I’m angry, and I’m hurt. I’ve been feeling a constant overwhelm of these emotions and my best coping skills are the ones that end up destructing my life even more. I don’t know where to run and I don’t know where to hide. I want to pull my life together but it seems like when things start to shine a little light in something else fly’s in its path, tearing it all down. I wonder, will I ever have a stable job? Will I ever have a stable relationship or family? Will I ever come to terms with my mental illness and eating disorder? What is the fucking point of all of this?!? I live in so much fear on a daily basis that I will basically looked at as the failure, the fuck up, the underachiever, the crazy one, or the one who was too weak. I take your thoughts and emotions and interpret them into what I think they are and then give myself a painful beating because thats what I’m used to and now that I’m not at home and receiving a daily beating from my father I have to do it myself and whatever I interpreted gave me reason to self destruct. Is life supposed to be this hard…. seriously? My life consists of attending and participating in AA, seeing multiple doctors, a therapist, a dietitian, and taking a pharmacy of medication three times a day. Don’t get me wrong I do have good moments but should it be this tiring on the soul. If you’re in an abusive relationship it’s often suggested that you leave the relationship and take further action if needed but what if your brain is the abuser in the relationship?

Insanity

What is the key ingredient to making it through a deep and reoccurring depression mixed with psychosis? I wish I had the fucking answer to that riddle. I feel like I’m crawling out of my skin during most of my waking hours. I can’t bear noise and there is always noise, if it’s not coming from real people or real television sets and radio players then it is the incessant chatter that my mind creates. The chatter that is becoming more than random words I can’t put together and more of a command type version again. The worse the depression the worse the voices are and the harder they make my already difficult life. I’m currently uninsured and seeking services through the County but nothing in place yet so that leaves me without a doctor and less than 20 days of meds left. Right now I need a med change but that’s not financially possible until I’m set up with the County so I’m Just trying to hold on with everything I have. It’s like I’ve been put in a desert with a granola bar and a single canteen of water- the granola bar is like my medication and the water is like rational thought. The granola bar is easy because you eat it or you don’t but the water is tricky because when you’re sitting in a sweltering hot desert trying to conserve that water and it could start to evaporate and so you’re losing a vital source to your survival no matter how hard you try. No matter what I do my sanity will start to go more and more until my cocktail can be adjusted and a doctor can be seen. I’m moving to fucking Canada.

Holding on

It hurts to think, talk, and even watch my chest rise and fall as I breathe. Depression sucks the life out of me and takes my once enjoyable days, the ones where most things seemed to come with ease and turns them into unendurable days of hell. I’m three pages into this blog and I’m exhausted. I feel the need to write because I know getting it on paper sometimes helps and I know I’m not the only one experiencing this hell on earth. I wonder to myself in times like this if my moods will ever even out and I think it’s safe to say that life will always be a struggle. Outsiders have said I just need to find things to fill my day or a purpose and I can say that I’ve had both but these things don’t balance out the chemicals that are so fucked up in my brain. I’ve had others comment on the advances in medicine but that’s not going to solve the problem I have right now, the problem of wanting to end all of this. The thing that baffles me is that just a week ago I was so grateful to be alive, to have survived a massive suicide attempt, and now part of me is back in that place where it just doesn’t seem worth it. I do know that this will pass and the sun will begin to eliminate the darkness and that if I hold on once again I will be able to experience the light and the ease of thinking, talking, and breathing. Hold on, hold on, hold on…

My father who molested me

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About a year ago It was confirmed that at the age of five my father molested me. While working in therapy and talking with my mother, what I had always secretly wondered became a true reality. I went for a long while not speaking to my father after I had confronted him and spent a lot of time very angry. Eventually, what I think was out of pity, I started talking to my dad or at least listened to him ramble. I say it was out of pity because my dad doesn’t have many people in his life, he has driven most away including both of my sisters due to his narcissistic ways. He is also a very angry man who is known to have frequent violent outbursts,and is both physically and emotionally abusive. Despite all of this I just wrote my dad the most eloquent, kind, and loving letter for fathers day tomorrow. Why? Maybe my big heart, or maybe because my dysfunctional self still wants his approval, or a mix of two I guess. Some or most would say I’m out of my mind or wouldn’t be able to grasp how I could write what I did, I think I’m them as well. My dad has done a lot of good for me but mostly his actions were horribly destructive. I have a lot of trouble with my memory, partly from ECT but I think it’s also my brains way of protecting me from all the trauma I experienced from my father but I still remember some and I wish I remembered none. I guess I just wish so much that I had a dad who didn’t inflict so much pain even to this day. So I try and be the best daughter I can can in hopes that I’ll receive a different kind of dad. I know this will never happen but it’s connecting the head and the heart and seeing reality from that prospective which I have yet to do.

Relentless insomnia = Inexorable insanity

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Three days out of treatment, two days without sleep. I think and I think and I think, my brain refuses to shut down, the insanity grows every waking moment. I couldn’t even tell you what I’m thinking about except for one thing. That one is that I wish I were still in treatment due to the fact that I would have someone to talk to at any moment, night and day. I need or at least want someone to tell me that my thoughts are far from rational and that my fears about the distant future are something I shouldn’t waste my time ruminating over. It’s 2AM and I just want to hear someone tell me that it’s going to be okay and I’m going to be okay. I want someone to hold me and assure me that I’m safe, that in this moment I am okay. Instead I am alone and the feeling of being alone is record breaking in the current moment. Netflix, books, music, and Amazon.com can’t fix it and Diet Coke is probably making it worse along with chain smoking. The voices are getting louder and the paranoia is more prominent and the less I sleep the stronger they will become. hat one already. I don’t miss being locked inside, I don’t miss the food, I don’t miss certain therapists, I don’t miss the lack of control, I don’t miss the few and far between cigarette breaks, and I don’t miss being treated like I’m defective (I do a pretty good job at that already.) I do miss the people, I miss them a lot, more than I could have counted on. I miss the special bond I had with some, the connection, the trust, and the example that life doesn’t have to always be so difficult. I’m now sitting in bed with tears streaming down my face and lighting another cigarette. I just want to be okay, something I don’t think I have ever felt even if I was okay I still lacked the feeling. Time for another Diet Coke as I finish my cigarette and then back to Netflix… am I expecting a different result while doing the same thing? I suppose.

A thing called hope in the midst of chaos

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I went to bed last night with nothing but darkness. My day had started with fireworks shooting in all directions and the sun shining bright, it ended with hallucinations swirling around all cervices of my mind. When I woke up this morning the darkness hadn’t lifted much and I saw no purpose in getting out of bed and participating in life and this continued throughout most of my day. I finally ventured out of bed for the single purpose of getting my hands on a cigarette (sometimes it’s the little things that lead us to the bigger and better things) During this hunt for a cigarette I ran into my therapist who I met with a short time later. It’s funny how I can be so unaware of the things going on in my head until they come out of my mouth and in this process the world seems a little lighter and a little brighter. My therapist at the treatment center has become a cornerstone of my recovery here and I feel able to share my deepest and even darkest thoughts and feelings. I was able in this session to put things on the drawing board and sort them out so that my mind feels a little less like a dark cave that even the brightest flashlight can’t maneuver one around in. I walked back out with all  of the patients and into a process group where I was then able to hear other girls sharing my thoughts which added even more cushion to the pain inside. Afterwards I was sitting outside smoking and speaking with a new therapist, as our conversation was coming to an end I asked about the tattoo I had spotted on her wrist which she explained was a drawing of the world and then herself on top “It’s always a good reminder” she stated. I then pulled up my sleeve to show her mine as well. It comes from a poem called “Hope” from Emily Dickinson and it goes like this “Hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul, and sings the tune, without the words, and never stops at all.” I then replied “Sometimes I need a good reminder.” Even in the darkest of times there is still light to be found and I have learned that no matter how appealing it looks or how tired I get, I must never fully give up or give in. 

Death

I called my mother this morning like many of us do or did. First major difference- I’m in a locked down facility for eating disorders. Going on- I loudly and enthusiastically shout “happy Mother’s Day.” The voice on the other line was distant and sad . “My mother stated she was by her dad ( my grandpa) and that he had taken a big hit overnight and he wasn’t going to make it long. This would be the second difference, most mothers have an enjoyable day on this holiday they get once a year. At 6.44pm tonight my sister called to say that he had passed away. All I wanted was to smash my fists against anything, I wanted to yell but I didn’t know what to yell, at the same time I wanted to cry, be held, and told ” it’s gonna be ok” I did everything but punch anything- that doesn’t go over well here. There are no feelings I have for not being with my family, losing my grandpa, and having my mom lose her dad on her holiday. I’m not going to add more to that because I think it would just be self pity. RIP Gandpop

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