Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Hiding

So the food issues are back full circle now.  I want to write about the behaviours, but someone will undoubtedly find this blog and use them to further their own bulimia or anorexia.  Suffice to say there is alot of hiding going on.  Food has become the enemy, but it’s all I can think about.  I worry in advance about this weekend, as I know my best friend and I will be going out to eat.  I’m trying to plan ahead, thinking of the least caloric thing at every fast food place I can imagine.  I’m trying to figure out how to avoid eating at all during the day on Friday and Saturday to make up for the evening.  And I’m trying so hard to hide this from my best friend, to keep it from affecting his life.

Everything I eat seems like failure.  If I feel full, I also feel guilty.  I’m exercising a great deal each day, hoping the calories I’m consuming will burn away.  And I know this is so bad for me.  I know the results of restricting calories tremendously whilst exercising heavily.  It scares me, but I can’t overcome it.  Part of me wants desperately for this to stop; another part of me truly believes it will when I feel small enough.  It’s a downward spiral, and it’s getting deeper every day.

Control

Things are out of sorts for me, and, for some lovely reason, lacking a sense of control = self-destructive behaviour for me.  This time, it has equalled the return of my disordered eating.  I’ve eaten two small bowls of spaghetti over the past two days, and I’m still obsessed with the thought that pasta is a carb-heavy food.  I know, in logical terms, that I’m not eating enough.  I just feel so overwhelmed and guilty for eating at all.

That said, I do need to lose a fair bit of weight.  I just can’t seem to do it in a healthy pattern.  I’ll go on these near-starvation diets and lose 60 pounds in a matter of two months.  Then, I’ll start eating again but start purging the minute my weight starts going back up.  Then, the weight will go up to the unhealthy *heavy* size, all in a matter of months.

So what’s the driving factor?  First, control.  I feel like my entire life is out of control at this point.  Restricting calories and obsessing over food makes me feel more in control.  Second, an offhand comment.  Someone recently mentioned something about my weight that has made me feel disgusting inside and out.  I feel bound to prove to this person that I can, in fact, limit myself and lose weight.  I guess that goes back to control, too.  Never really thought of it like that until I started writing here.  Hunger becomes a sign that I’ve succeeded that day.  Sore muscles become a sign that I’m disciplining my body properly.

I’m scared, frustrated, and so tired of not being able to handle food in a healthier way.  I have no idea how to get out of this food shame cycle, and it’s very hard to fight my mind on this subject, anyway.  *sigh*  Here we go again, I guess.

#EpicFail

It’s getting cooler here. Perfect weather for long-sleeved tees and jumpers. So what’s my first thought? It’s also the perfect weather for self injury and not getting caught.

This is what, on Twitter, would constitute an epic fail.

Lessons Learnt

I was arguing with a housemate this morning and thought of the lessons learnt by children of abuse.  In response to the housemate’s anger, I immediately started putting myself down and raising him as the superior person.  His anger cooled as I made myself lower and lower, and my shame rose.  Just like old times, eh?

As children of abuse, we learn the rule that secrecy is of utmost importance.  In fact, secrecy is needed for survival.  Without the sacred secrecy of our dysfunctional families, the world as a whole will fall apart.  Keeping the secret becomes a physical ache.  But keep it we do.  Why?  Because they told us to.  And because by the time we find out how different our lives are from those in ‘normal’ families, we are too ashamed to admit what’s going on in ours.

We learn to feel what we are told to feel.  Mum is sad today, so I’m sad too.  Why?  Because she will only tolerate sadness when she feels that way.  Any other emotion is wrong and is an affront against her.  We learn to hide how we truly feel.  Eventually, we learn to stop feeling any way at all unless we’re told to do so.

We learn that, no matter what, it’s our fault.  We may not remember what we did or when or how.  It might even seem impossible that we did *anything.*  But we know we did.  And if we forget that, our abusers are quick to remind us.  We take it to heart, and it becomes another secret.  We spend our lives terrified that others will see what our abusers saw, and they will hurt us, too.  We learn that everyone will desert us in the end.

*Un*learning all of that takes a lifetime.  I’m not sure it’s ever entirely possible.  We *can,* however, discover ourselves.  It took years, but I can now state my emotions clearly.  Sometimes I can even do it without fear.  I have a favourite colour that was not chosen for me.  I have my own likes and dislikes, and even if I worry about being ridiculed, I’ve been known to share them from time to time.  I have grown as a person through the love and patience of my family-of-choice.  They’ve taught me other lessons.  I still doubt their truth sometimes, and the child of abuse within me argues against them.  But I know deep down that they love me, even if I don’t feel worthy and can’t imagine how they could.

We learn lessons as children of abuse that are meant to break us.  The hard work comes in learning lessons as survivors that help us fly.

Crashing Down

I’ve been in a bipolar depressive episode for five weeks with about two days’ reprieve.  Things are black.  The sun doesn’t even look bright.  I’m so tired of feeling like this.  My doctor is trying me on an anti-depressant with the thought that the potential for a manic episode is not worth letting the depressive episode carry on like this.  In the meantime, *everything* is falling apart.  I got in trouble at work, gained weight I’d lost, and just generally stopped caring enough to take care of myself.

This lands me where I am today.  I feel disgusting inside and out.  My disordered eating patterns are back.  The self-injurious behaviour is back.  I just generally don’t care what happens to my body right now.  My mind is too far from settled to give it thought.

I stay around for those I love and those who love me back.  I stay for my cats who are my little furry children.  I stay for my family-of-choice who I couldn’t hurt the way being a survivor of suicide does.  I’m just tired of staying right now.

The Single Life

My post-integration life has been interesting.  There is quite a learning curve in going from we to I.  It has been easier in some ways, but it’s also been lonely a time or two.  If I hear voices now, they’re the psychotic type that comment on me and my life negatively.  I sometimes miss the *nice* voices.

Responsibility is a whole new issue.  I always tried to take responsibility for what my others did and said, but now it’s all on me for definite.  There is no one else to blame for the good or the bad.  It makes things easier in terms of making decisions and remembering actions.  Still, it’s humbling to know everything falls on my shoulders now.

Then there’s the issue of loneliness.  For a while, I had to surround myself with others via text or email or communication of some form.  I couldn’t stand the silence.  Now, although I’m still not the best with it, I can handle silence for a time.  Sometimes I even enjoy it.  I never thought I’d get re-accustomed to it.

So would I do the integration thing again?  Yes.  In a second’s time.  That’s a question I’m asked in email frequently.  Again, this is *not* the route for some.  And that’s just fine.  Being functional is the goal, regardless of parts.  For me, though, this was the route.  And I do not regret it.

Update

I just realised how long it’s been since I’ve posted on this blog.  This year in general has been bad for writing.  I’ve rarely journalled, even now that I have my own space again.  It’s like my brain prefers not to remember right now, even though things aren’t particularly difficult.

The other aspect is therapy work.  We’re in the midst of serious discussions about ritual abuse overall and cult structures, which is making me want to guard every ounce of information I’ve put on the Internet regarding the subject.  I’m worried that my therapist will change her mind about my sanity and decide the whole bit has been nothing but a fantastical story.  That’s a risk I’ll have to take in order to move forward with therapy, though.  It’s such a precarious process.

Other than that, my mind has been reasonably quiet.  Life and work and learning go on with the past as a shadow that is, for now, not winning.  I’ll take that.

A lovely reader just alerted me via email of a problem posting comments.  If anyone has got a message saying their comment cannot be posted, please know that you aren’t being ignored.  There is apparently a problem with the Comment Gods, as I’m not getting notices of pending comments at all.  Sorry about that!

I will try to suss this out as soon as possible.  In the meantime, please feel free to email me with anything you’d like to say.  Click the ’email me’ link on the sidebar or just send a message to ec1_englishrain@yahoo.com

THAT Exam

My doctor has suggested it.  My therapist has suggested it.  My psychiatrist– if he were so inclined– would probably suggest it, too.  When she was just a bit older than me, my mother went in for a routine pap test and found that pre-cancerous cells were forming in her uterine lining.  Now, I need to get a bloody pap test, and I cannot seem to even schedule the appointment.

For those of you who don’t know, pap tests involve using a speculum to expand the vaginal opening so that the doctor can see the lining of the cervix.  Then, cells are brushed off into a specimen jar.  To end the exam, the doctor inserts two fingers in the vagina and presses on the lower pelvic area to feel for the size, shape, and location of reproductive organs.  ‘Written out’ it seems fairly innocuous.  Why, then, have I had to pause this post to go and be sick?

For me, the panic starts when I have to lay my head back.  At that point, I can’t *see* the person touching me.  As I was often tied up and blind-folded during sexual trauma, this is terrifying for me.  I don’t want to lie there with my head back unable to see this person who, at that point, will feel all-powerful to me.  That utter lack of control makes me physically ill.  I don’t want anyone even thinking about that area of my body, much less concentrating on it and even touching it.

Logically, I know this is a very simple medical procedure that will be performed by a female physician who has probably done thousands of these.  I know it only takes a few minutes and isn’t likely to cause me a great deal of pain.  Yet I cannot bring myself to even set the appointment.

Any strategies, dear readers?  I know this is incredibly common amongst women with sexual trauma histories.  What has helped you through?  Thanks in advance.

Lately, I’ve been looking back alot.  This is problematic, in that even looking at the good times brings my mind to the bad times.  Now, I’m just trying to refocus in the present.  It’s easier said that done.  I tread through fire finding and charging an old mobile phone that was mine in graduate school.  I remember the exact ring tone I had and the exact text tone I had during one of the most challenging experiences of my life.  For some reason, I just needed to hear them again.

Maybe it’s an identity thing.  Nine years ago, my life was good.  I had a flat, a job, school, friends, and promise for the future.  Now, I feel hopeless.  The friends I had are gone, school has ended, my job is nothing like it was before, I’m not currently capable of living alone, and I’m maudlin.  I need to realise the good things and wonderful people in my current life.  I need to pull myself out of this rut of self-pity and be grateful for everything.

But instead, I’m staring at a mobile hoping a certain ring of the phone will transport me back to a time when none of it had happened.

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 169 other followers

%d bloggers like this: