Put Up or Shut Up

I don’t like living the way I am. It’s full of hostility, anger, retreating, not knowing how to make it stop. I am tired of the yelling, tired of the anger, the explosiveness, the fights. I’m tired of re-living my childhood…except this time I’m not hiding in a closet trying not to scream. I’m in the line of fire. I’m frozen, knowing I can’t run, can’t talk my way out of it, can’t win. I can’t escape.

I don’t know what to do anymore. I want to make it stop. I feel like nothing is my own. I have given my rights up, and I don’t have any say in anything. Even if I did speak up, I’m wrong. I am always wrong. I am always stupid. I am always inferior. I am always worthless, until I’m needed for something specific- then I go back to worthless.

This life is nothing. I don’t find it worthwhile. I know exactly how to escape…but I can’t. For a few reasons. None of them very compelling. I wouldn’t get away with it, though. Someone would try to save me, try to be the hero. I don’t want you to save me; I want you to let me go.

Let me go. Let me go. Let me go.

I don’t need this anymore. I don’t want this anymore. I’m tired of thinking it will get better, because it won’t, and it’s useless. It’s terrifying to think that I let myself believe anything could get better. I knew better. I know better. I let myself go. I think things can be like fairy tales. They can’t.

So do I drink myself into oblivion? Cry myself to sleep at night? Claw at my arms wishing I could slash them like I used to? Starve myself because I don’t deserve anything anyway?

Does any of this even work anymore, anyway?

Starving can’t make me numb anymore. Drinking ends. Clawing doesn’t really help and the fear of others seeing my scars again is too great. I covered them, masked them, and put a fucking smile on my face like it means something.

Does any of this mean anything? Am I prolonging the inevitable?

Probably. I think I know what to do…it’s just doing it.

This probably makes no sense. Or it makes a great deal of sense. I don’t know.

Sorry.

-July 26, 2017

P.S- Happy fucking three year anniversary, self. You’ve really made yourself proud this year.

Fuck this shit.

(Three years out of treatment, and this is how I spend it.)

Advertisements

I’ve been a little absent again. I’m sorry. Things have been crazy lately.

I’ve gone to Baltimore twice in the past month or so, and I’m going back Wednesday-Saturday. Well, Wednesday and Saturday will most likely be spent driving. 12 hours of fun! My dress for the wedding is ready and fits, and I’m super excited for it to happen.

I don’t know if I said this in the last post…I could go check but I’m being lazy. I got a dog, Oliver. So he’s been filling most of my time. He’s eight months old and doing well, but not fully potty trained yet. It’s kind of a nightmare with that. I had him in this mesh enclosure thing I used to transport White Kitty down here to Georgia, but he ended up chewing through it and escaping. I do need to get him a crate, but I’m royally broke right now. This sounds insane but I am trying out a doggy diaper to see if that works at all. It’s mostly just when I’m gone for work that he has accidents. But we’re working on it.

White Kitty has been hiding a lot, which is kind of sad for me. I miss her. She’s taken to hiding in my bathroom cabinet (below the sink), so I made it comfy for her. Pillow, blankets, etc. Hopefully she comes out more soon.

Work has been…work. Busy. Hectic. Stressful. I had a job interview yesterday. It was a culture interview, actually. Second of third; if they like me, I’ll go on to the third (a resume interview). I haven’t heard anything, though. My anxiety has sky rocketed. I wish they would have told me something today. My boyfriend applied to the same job, but he had his interview on a Wednesday (and he heard back Friday). So I suppose I’ll hear back Monday? I guess. He didn’t get chosen, which really sucks. It kind of makes me feel bad. I don’t think I’ll get it, but if I did…I don’t know. I’d always feel self-conscious.

There’s a lot going on with that. Feeling self-conscious. Contemplating if I matter. If my opinion, ideas, or anything I have to say, matters. Does anyone really want to hear me, anyway? People constantly talk over me. Cut into what I’m saying. Why do I even bother speaking? This is why I stopped when I was little. I went silent because nobody heard me anyway. Why keep trying when it’s useless. Nothing I said mattered, nothing I did made anything better. I could wish and pray and hope with all my might, but it would never stop. Until it did, and I blamed myself anyway.

I miss my dad. It’s Father’s Day soon. Everybody coming into Starbucks is buying the Father’s Day gift cards. Tomorrow there’s supposed to be a group of thirty people celebrating fathers coming into the store for their celebration. I don’t want to be there for that, but I don’t have a choice. I ache to feel my dad’s presence again. I ache to feel his touch. I ache to hear his voice. I wish I had him back. And I hate myself for being jealous of other people who do have their dads. I hate that I’m so bitter towards them. There’s no reason for me to be. I’m glad for you if you have your dad. I just miss mine. I don’t wish this upon anyone, though I know it will happen eventually to most.

I hate the hole it’s left inside me. It’s a giant void I feel myself slipping into from time to time. Like right now. It’s a black hole filled with shreds of my broken heart. Desperation, longing, and bitterness reside there. It’s funny how you wish you had someone back, but can’t stand to be around anyone else who is actually here.

They can get it, they can not get it. The point is, nothing anyone ever says will make it better. And I don’t say that in a mean way…it’s just kind of the truth. It feels nice to have people care, and try, but no one can be my father, or bring my father back. No one can tell me why. No one can explain why that was necessary…a reason that would actually make sense to me. Why is it supposedly God’s will for my dad to succumb to cancer? He went out in pain. He left me in pain. Why is God’s will pain?

I wish I had answers. I wanted to be able to go to church…and I actually asked my boss if I could have Sunday’s off for school this coming semester (so that I could go to church in the morning). But she said Sunday’s are tricky, and she needs me to work. I close Saturday nights, so that doesn’t work for church either. Maybe one day I’ll figure something out.

I don’t know why I’m becoming to anti-people lately. It’s like I crave love, I crave having people who care…but I also crave sleep. And being alone. And not bother humanity with my insanity.

I don’t know what I want. But something has to change. This isn’t tolerable.

-June 16, 2017

Bad Day

I’m pretty sure nothing I do is right. And I’m pretty sure in the end, everyone will grow to hate me.

It makes sense. I knew there was something wrong with me. And I can pretend like there’s not, like I’m just weird like everybody else is…but I don’t know. There’s something blocking me from the rest of the world. I can’t pinpoint it, but I can feel it.

I don’t want to be the last person someone thinks of. I don’t want to be just another person. I want to mean something. And I don’t really think I do. I don’t think I mean very much to some people.

They always tell you that if you love yourself, and believe in yourself, then that’s enough. Is it really? Because it doesn’t feel like it. Believe it or not, we do need each other. We need other people. We need humanity to acknowledge our existence. Because without acknowledgement, are we really even there?

I used my behaviors as punishment. I treat myself like shit because that’s what I am. I would tell myself over and over not to believe the lies that “I’m good enough”, or “I matter”. It doesn’t make up for anything. My past will always live inside me. I can forget all the good memories, but the old demons are there to stay.

And that’s actually how it is. My brain doesn’t remember good times. It doesn’t remember sitting at the ice cream shop down the street with my dad and brother. It doesn’t remember going to Ireland with my dad and all my siblings. It doesn’t remember the love.

It remembers the shit. It remembers the screams. It remembers the terror.

Why is that?

My body remembers how it felt. Not just emotionally, but physically. The pain that rocks me to my core. And it comes back up. And it comes back up. And it comes back up.

Good days, bad days, and whatever in between. Sometimes I don’t hate myself this much. Tonight I do.

-June 1, 2017

It’s The Courage To Continue That Counts…Or So They Say

This world is kind of cruel.

Yesterday was a shit show. Today didn’t turn out much better, either.

I didn’t sleep well, so I’m exhausted now.

School was really difficult, but not in the usual sense. I had my last day of classes today. In communications class, whoever hadn’t gone yet were giving their debate speeches. The final topic of the day was doctor-assisted suicide, or as they phrased it, “dying with dignity”. Many of their examples were obviously people who are terminally ill. The topic combined with the examples brought up a lot for me. I couldn’t stop thinking about my dad, and his death process, and obviously how it affected me. It’s hard to explain, but the feelings emerged again, full-force. That happens sometimes…it’s not a specific memory that triggers the feelings, it’s the feelings from the entire process/experience. They just emerge out of nowhere. No matter how many times I’ve tried to “deal with it” in therapy, sometimes that just happens. It’s hard for me, because there’s no specific reason I’m crying and shaking…I just am. So I don’t always know how to soothe myself.

I suppose a plus for me today was that I chose to reach out to my professor. I don’t even know her that well, but my options were to ask her for help, or go into the hallway and break out in a panic attack in front of everybody. I said, “I know you’re not a therapist, but can I talk to you?”, and she brought me to her office. I was crying and shaking some but it didn’t end in a full on panic attack. That’s pretty good for me. I took the time I needed to calm down, and went on to my next class.

I made a really big move today as well to pay off all of my medical debt. That was a difficult decision to make, seeing as how my debt was extremely high. I have medical accounts in collections dating back to 2011. I couldn’t even tell the lady at one of the companies what my address was at the time for that account. I did live in Florida for one of the accounts, but I a) don’t remember my living there (besides the main fact that I lived there), and b) don’t have a clue what my address was when I lived there. It’s kind of awful. I still can’t get over the fact that I don’t remember my time living there at all. I really don’t understand how this experience was just entirely erased from my memory. My mom has told me the main facts of the situation, but…it’s just weird. I wasn’t having electric shock therapy while I lived there, so I don’t think that’s the reason I don’t remember. Or maybe it is. Maybe it was a delayed thing? I know I did have ECT around the time I lived there (as in before that event and after that event, in the surrounding years). I’ve tried recalling the information several ways in therapy, and none have worked so far.

There’s other events of my life that have been erased somehow. I went to Ireland with my dad/siblings before he died in high school, and sadly I don’t remember that trip at all. That one I really don’t understand, because I didn’t have ECT until about two years after that event (and I hadn’t had it before). I’d just like to know why my brain erased it.

Moving on, though. I’m pretty tired, and hoping tomorrow won’t be shit as well. Until then, I’ll netflix and chill.

I will add, I’ve decided to take advantage of the Starbucks school reimbursement. I was accepted to ASU online for the fall semester. I looked at the classes they provide there, and I can’t wait. They have so many amazing class options! I want to take so many. Maybe I will, just for the heck of it.

That’s all.

-May 1, 2017

When You Read a Book That Sparks a Light Inside of You

I bought a book the other day from Barnes and Noble. Well, I bought several, but this one was read first. It’s called, “The Princess Saves Herself In This One” by Amanda Lovelace. While there are several pages I have tagged, and I did make a word document out of all my favorite passages/quotes, I think I’ll talk about these two today:

Pages 96-97: Fuck the idea that there is such a thing as destiny, that there exists some kind of mysterious master plan, that there is a god who simply does not give us anything we cannot handle. The pain did not make me a better person. It did not teach me not to take anything for granted. It did not teach me anything except how to be afraid to love anyone. I am far too young to be so goddamn broken & if I could go back in time & give myself her childhood back, I would. –what was the point?

Page 142: I let myself know that my life doesn’t have to be over just because theirs are & I went ahead & painted the sun back into my sky. –I am allowed to live my life

I’ve been working on this a lot- living my life even though my dad can no longer live his. Living my life despite the fact that several people have lost theirs in the past few years. Living my life despite the fact that I have no idea why it was them and not me.

I’ve always been so angry with the world about this topic. Why did God take my dad? There was no good reason. No one can argue with me that, like she said, there is some “greater plan”. I bought into that for a bit. I believed that there was some reason for everything, some explanation I wasn’t aware of. I thought, maybe it’s (I don’t have a good word, because “tolerable” and “okay” are not it…so fill in that blank yourself), because now my parents aren’t fighting. I don’t have to live a life at home in constant fear. I don’t have to feel on-edge at every moment, because there won’t be any more of the screaming, the banging, the tears, the wasted energy…the hope that maybe one day it’ll stop. Because it has. It has stopped. Silence has greeted this house, for once.

Then the battle began- did I do this? Every year, when I blew out my birthday candles, I wished my parents would stop fighting. I went to bed hoping that tomorrow, things would change. That the chaos would cease.

I battled feeling like God misinterpreted my prayers, to telling myself that I’m really not that important/this can’t be my fault, to being angry with God for doing this, to disbelief in any higher power listening to me anyway.

And that’s where I remain now.

It’s hard for me to believe in any higher power loving me, taking care of me, watching over me, or giving any justice in this world. My dad was a good person. He was smart, he was funny, and no, I will not agree that it was “his time”. He could have done so much more in this world.

I spent years trying to work through this mess. I nearly killed myself in the process. Yes, I am “together” today, for all intents and purposes. I’m alive. I have learned things. But I feel like I could have learned them another way. It doesn’t take my dad dying to make this happen.

People die- that’s life. I understand that concept. But I don’t agree with how it happened for me. I don’t agree with a lot of deaths that happen. It’s not fair. And no, I don’t care that that is a childish statement. Sometimes, it’s just not.

I had to learn the second quote eventually, though. I had to let go of a lot of that anger, the “it’s not fair” attitude. While that statement remains true, I learned I cannot live out that statement. I cannot ruin my life based on the fact that it wasn’t fair that my dad died.

I still hold some of that anger inside of me. It’s extremely difficult to ditch all of it. And I did learn that I have to “paint the sun back into my sky”. I can’t live my life in anger with something that I can never personally change. I can’t will my dad back to life…but I can progress in my own life and try to make him proud.

Sometimes I forget that intention. The more I was sucked into the eating disorder, the more I believed I had already disappointed my dad- and there was no way out. I imagined him looking down on me, wishing I wasn’t his daughter. Or worse, not even recognizing me.

I was someone completely different after he died. And I am someone completely different now. Some things stay the same, and I know he can see that. All things I learned from him…people-watching, cat loving, getting lost in books, writing poetry…they’re still there. And I’m proud of that. And if I’m proud of that, I think he would be too.

My dad was an amazing person, when it comes down to it. I got the pleasure of spending 16 years with him. While I have a long list of regrets, I always have the love in my heart that I need to believe he can feel. I choose to believe that if he knocked on my door today, we would smile together instead of feeling shame.

I still don’t agree that death like this is necessary…but the ability to keep going despite it, is.

-February 22, 2017

 

Sink or Swim Territory

Is it a problem if it’s not defined? How will I know when to stop? How will I know how to stop? Is there a certain line where it transfers from “sort of” to “absolute”?

It seems I’m losing focus. When I think to reach out to someone, I hold back. There’s always some reason I shouldn’t do it. There’s always the hesitation that “it’s really not that big a deal”. I can stop when I go too far, right?

I’ve never been able to stop before. I don’t even know if I can stop now. It’s worrisome to me, but I somehow think I have the ability to make it through. I have before. I will again.

I don’t like to think this is a “lapse”, much less a relapse. It might be, though. Secretive behaviors never really amount to any good. For me, or anyone, that is. For the eating disorder, it’s a joyous state to be in.

I know I can get high on the behaviors. I can wrap myself completely in the ED blanket and spend all of my time thinking about things that normally, wouldn’t matter. Weight, size, people’s perception of me…my perceptions of myself. I would really rather be concentrating on the semester that just begun. I’d like to retain this information, not sit in the class at the end wondering what just went down.

My ability to retain is hurting. I listen to my teachers in class with that exact situation…I hear them. I know I’m listening. But I have no idea what they just said.

I want to listen. I want to learn. I want to move forward, not back.

I feel that I’m inching towards “in too deep”-territory. But no one knows. I’m too scared. Or too protective. Or both.

I’ll need to gather courage to tell someone soon. I can’t let this be how 2017 begins. It’s disheartening.

-January 18, 2017

Something About Death

Hey, just a thought I’m having today. 

Carrie Fisher died yesterday (I believe) from a heart attack at age 60. I’m sure if you’re on social media, you’ve heard/seen posts about it. 

Carrie Fisher was bipolar, and open about her struggles with mental illness. Everybody seems to be posting quotes from her, articles she’s spoken in, interviews she’s done…etc. 

I believe it’s good that these quotes are being so widely publicized. My only question is…does it really take someone dying to make what they’ve said so relevant?

I’m not trying to bash anyone…it’s just something that happens when people pass away. You think about what they’ve said, or done, or impressions they’ve made on you. With someone famous, their lives are spread across social media. 

I believe what Carrie Fisher went through and what she has to say about it is very important. I think my point is, I wish what she had to say was of relevance and utmost importance every day of the year. 

When you have a mental illness, it is not your fault, and there is nothing to be ashamed about. Yet so many of us feel such intense blame, guilt, and shame over what we go through, and the actions we make because of it. I desire most that we live in a world that is constantly making us aware that we are not alone. One where people who have been through what Carrie Fisher had been through, or anything similar, could freely come forward and be secure in sharing their stories. One where someone’s death doesn’t have to be the reason we’re aware of mental illness.

I hope what I said here portrays what I’m actually trying to get across, and not anything offensive. If not, I’m sorry. 

And Rest In Peace, Carrie Fisher.