ca·pa·bil·i·ty [key-puh-bil-i-tee]
noun, plural ca·pa·bil·i·ties.
1. the quality of being capable; capacity; ability: His capability was unquestionable.
2. the ability to undergo or be affected by a given treatment or action: the capability of glass in resisting heat.
3. Usually, capabilities. qualities, abilities, features, etc., that can be used or developed; potential: Though dilapidated, the house has great capabilities.
Origin: 1580–90; (< Middle French capabilité ) < Late Latin capābili ( s ) capable + -ty2
This is big. I feel like I'm standing in front of a 1000 foot concrete wall. And I'm gone...I can't even look at the paper. That's why I forced myself to write the definition above. Holy hell it's hot. Feel like I could pass out. Cheeks flushed.Plush. Racing. Veins throbbing. Head dizzy, light, fuzzy, going. I can feel the numbness washing over me, shielding me, guarding me from the inevitable pain that will arise. The numbness cannot be penetrated. The numbness is safe. I feel out of my mind. Psycho? (Ask Dr. Grose.) Hands sweating, floor moving, room spinning, anti-psychotics. Floating. Funeral story. Find it. Ignore. I feel sick. I hear a Mustang. I want to run. I want a motorcycle. I want to go fast. I want to face danger. What is the matter? Can I help or will I be forced to sit-back and watch the frustration well-up inside you? Ringing in my ears. Gone. Drop it. Compensate. Back-pedal. What is on your mind? Let me throw something out there. Head pounding. People are manipulative, not authentic.
Middle-page, halfway!
Capability. Irony? Mind blown. This could be the turning point not only in my recovery, but also in my life. As I turn the page and leave the past behind I can move on. I haven't even discussed it yet but I know this is where the capability conversation is leading. A new page. A new half. Shut down. So numb I cannot feel afraid to write on the next page. I can't breathe. Not here. Not in this building. Not in this world. I touch the center of the page to ensure it's real. It is. Nothing feels real. Nothing feels safe. Tornado. Footsteps down the hall. Voices in the background. Words are heard but not registered. Is this real? My eyes are open but I cannot focus. Floating. High? Definitely not really. Feeling that disconnection, feeling unpresent. Can anyone see me? I'm shaking but I'm not scared, sweating but am not overheated. Red dots and lines fill my vision when I close my eyes. I try to look at them but they float too. My eyelids flutter, tremoring like an earthquake. Does my hand hurt? I'm not here. Out of body, out of mind. Deep, unfulfilled breath. Attracted. I'm attracted. Twisted. The only word that's made me smile... I'm so caught up in the craziness that is my mind that I just crossed the mid-point without anxiety. This anxiety was only concocted by my mind anyway. If I hadn't stopped to think about it, this crazy ironic notion would not have entered my head. I don't want to come back, come down, be here. Can I just walk through this place being in my own head? Is that possible? Am I capable? I've ignored the entire point. I'm good at that.
Capability: Is the person capable of giving you what you want? Do you have what the other person wants?
Enter cold sweat. Recovery done. Hah. How long will this numb-honest last? I blink and everything shifts for a split second and back. False pretense. Sweaty palms. Pen slipping. Calm them down. Feet tapping. Body shifting. Voices scratchy, not emotionally here. Driven. Done. Done? Capability...
No. Heart stopping. No. Always the underlying issue. No. Numb. Dizzy. Pass out. Fail. Break. Numb out. Get out. Run. Hide. Jump. Fail.
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
Saturday, February 23, 2013
I(')mperfect
Maybe it's okay to be imperfect...
My entire life has revolved around this theory, this idea, of reaching perfection. What exactly is "perfect"? Is it obtainable?
Today I sat in a group discussing the definition of perfectionism. We were asked to use our non-dominant hand to express what this word means to us individually. Stuck on the horror of writing with my left hand, this is all I could sputter out: "This is cruel and unusual punishment. Feeling this way manifests my perfectionism. The end."
It looked like a three year old wrote it. To be brutally honest, I was completely disgusted. Why? Why on earth did it matter what my handwriting looked like? It was my left hand for crying out loud; what was it supposed to look like? I am not ambidextrous. Perfection was not required or even slightly expected.
"Perfectionism is a matter of opinion." What a interesting, marvelous way to put it. Now, can I make myself truly believe that? Altering what is hard-wired into my brain is not as easy as I would prefer it to be. My whole life has spun off it's axis trying to be the best, at everything, at all times. However, I cannot be happy if I'm just living to beat everyone, if I live every minute as a game: a competition to be won. There are some things in life that I should not want to be the best at, but due to this overwhelming urge, I find myself compulsed to try.
I can say the words: "there's beauty in imperfection". Yet, I cannot force myself to comprehend or believe them. I have my flaws; I hate them, but I have them. I think I'll make a list (I like lists). Confronting my flaws will most likely be terrifying and tedious, but I'm wondering if that will allow me to put them in perspective. My mind-set needs to change; I must find the perfection in my imperfections.
I'm perfect.
Monday, February 18, 2013
Whiplash, Unstoppable Splash
One fish, two fish,
Red fish, blue fish
...
Some are sad, and some are glad,
And some are very, very bad
...
Today is gone. Today was fun.
Tomorrow is another one.
- Dr. Seuss
My body snaps from one emotion to another, to one feeling and back. One day I'm fine: no urges, no triggers. I feel confident in myself, who I am becoming, and where I want to be. The next day I purge, feeling relief sink into me, releasing the pent up feelings of anger, aggression fear and depression. The following day I want to purge but don't because I have a selfish reason, more incentive, not to. Urges persist and grow like wildfire, burning paths through my mind, leaving scars as they turn my willpower into ash. As the hours drag on these thoughts, desires, continue to plague me. As a result I restrict my food intake trying to compensate, trying to contain the flames. Although my "wise mind" tells me I shouldn't, tells me to stop, I repeat the restricting cycle: every meal consuming less than my meal plan requires, less than what is necessary for proper nourishment. Pride and the feeling of success well up inside me and I become engulfed by this overwhelming sense of calm, peace. I am able to relax. I am back.
Irrational Danielle: 29,378 Logic: 7
Red fish, blue fish
...
Some are sad, and some are glad,
And some are very, very bad
...
Today is gone. Today was fun.
Tomorrow is another one.
- Dr. Seuss
My body snaps from one emotion to another, to one feeling and back. One day I'm fine: no urges, no triggers. I feel confident in myself, who I am becoming, and where I want to be. The next day I purge, feeling relief sink into me, releasing the pent up feelings of anger, aggression fear and depression. The following day I want to purge but don't because I have a selfish reason, more incentive, not to. Urges persist and grow like wildfire, burning paths through my mind, leaving scars as they turn my willpower into ash. As the hours drag on these thoughts, desires, continue to plague me. As a result I restrict my food intake trying to compensate, trying to contain the flames. Although my "wise mind" tells me I shouldn't, tells me to stop, I repeat the restricting cycle: every meal consuming less than my meal plan requires, less than what is necessary for proper nourishment. Pride and the feeling of success well up inside me and I become engulfed by this overwhelming sense of calm, peace. I am able to relax. I am back.
Irrational Danielle: 29,378 Logic: 7
Thursday, February 14, 2013
Resistance is Futile: This is a Story of a Girl...
Sweaty palms, flushed cheeks, pounding heart; I stare at this assignment in disbelief. "They’re kidding right?" I shake my head and scoff while perusing the questions. “What is an ideal
weight for you? What number is this on the scale? How many sizes of clothing do
you have? Document the patterns of your compulsion: how much, how often, when.
The examples should be specific and should include feelings. Unless you have a
feeling for how destructive your food use has been to you, you will have very
little reason for a continuing recovery program. In essence, this is a diary of
your life.” I sigh. “Seriously?” I thought numbers were taboo, sizes and
weights not to be discussed: off-limits. Seemingly every aspect of this task is
prohibited, forbidden by the treatment team to be openly discussed, and for
good reason. My anxiety is climbing, exponentially so, my thoughts are racing;
I’m entering a very painful, uncomfortable place. Not to mention I’m being asked to share these
deep, mostly dark, private emotions with everyone here.
“Take a breath; just breathe. Relax for a moment and approach this calmly. Hah! Yeah right.” My mind drifts away as I start to ponder the beginning of my eating disorder. “I have an eating disorder." It took me four years to say this out loud. I almost felt that if I did not utter the words vocally that the statement would not hold true. “If I don’t admit it, if I don’t say it, there’s really no problem. I’m fine.”
May 23rd, 2008: Our former high school class president was throwing an unofficial two year class reunion at her farm. Per usual I was at my best friend's house preparing to go out. I remember everything in vivid detail. We had invaded the basement bathroom with straighteners, make-up, hair spray, and seemingly every article of clothing we owned; sipping on her parents whiskey, refilling the bottles with water, as if that would fool them. Earlier that day we had gone shopping – I needed a new pair of jeans. That was my tipping point. I had gone to American Eagle, which had the only jeans that would fit me since I’m abnormally short, and had to buy the largest pair of jeans I had ever owned. I remember trying on three different pairs hoping it wasn't true; but it was. I was the biggest I had ever been. My mind started spiraling in a tornado of self-damaging thoughts. Looking in the mirror while prepping I realized I had to be rid of this distressing feeling; I had to numb the pain. I had to finally fulfill the only void I've ever felt in my life (which we’ll get to later). I had to achieve “perfection”. I had to be desirable. I had to be thin – whatever the cost. It was in that exact moment that I made the conscious decision to have an eating disorder. It was my twentieth birthday.
December 24th, 1992: Derby pies, deviled eggs, sugar cookies, smoked ham, veggie tray, velvet cake, potato casserole, pecan pie: Christmas Eve, Coomes' style. Snow covered the ground, adults covered the kitchen - no children allowed. We congregated under the tree, stealthily (or so we thought) counting our presents, evaluating who had more and, most importantly, who had the biggest. My cousin and I always had the same number and the same size gifts as we were only a month apart in age. As we assumed our designated positions on the floor I distinctly remember the first time I compared myself physically to someone. She had always been taller then me, as my immediate family lacks in the height department, but what I was experiencing was an entirely new, unfamiliar emotion for me. I looked at my dress, I focused on my stomach, my legs, my face. I felt pain, hurt. I felt fat. I was four years old.
August 10th, 1994: First day of first grade. White collar shirt, navy blue slacks. Typical Catholic school: everyone wore uniforms, everyone looked the same. Right? Shortest one in the class, little dirty-blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl, sharpened pencil in hand curiosity written all over my face. As the classroom filled my face slowly sunk. Withdrawn, disconnected, thoughts plummeting downward. Knots in my stomach, lumps in my throat. "Why am I fatter than everyone else? Why is my belly bigger; why do my legs take up more room?" I was six years old.
August 14th, 1996: Welcome to third grade! Top of my class, sharp and sarcastic. Why did I feel this overwhelming urge to fit in? I believed I would not be accepted for who I was. My biggest fear, unbeknownst to me at the time, was being alone. Daily I obsessed over my size, silently. At lunch time I would purposely never finish my food. Didn't help. Every night before bed, after brushing my teeth and saying my prayers, I'd lay down and squeeze my rib cage together as tightly as I could attempting to make it smaller. Every night. I was eight years old.
May 24th, 2000: "As we go on, we remember, all the times we had together..." Sixth grade graduation. Fancy sun-dresses, heels and frills - moving on to middle school. As I stood behind the pulpit I nervously tugged on my dress - my sleeves were too tight, my arms looked too big, my hips looked extraordinarily large because of the way the slip was falling. I could not concentrate. "Focus Danielle." I made it through my solo and the remainder of mass. Afterward I proceeded to change into my favorite outfit. However, once I exited the bathroom and confronted my classmates I was struck with shame. Immediately I withdrew into myself. "Why do I feel this way? Why can't I fix myself? I tried a few months ago." I was determined to be heard. I needed to express my excruciating affliction. First, I climbed the magnolia tree in the front yard and jumped out, landing on the side of my ankles. I did this numerous times to no avail. I was upset and repeatedly hit my arm on the sharp corner of my desk. I wanted to break it. I wanted it to hurt. It was incredibly painful, but I shed no tears. I started riding my bike slamming the same spot over and over on the handle bars. When I got back to the house I told my mother I fell off my bike. She paid me no heed. The next day, after seeing the swelling and plethora of bruises she took me to the doctor. I had broken my arm. To this day she does not know I fractured my arm intentionally. I was twelve years old.
September 15th, 2000: Congratulations! I had made the cheerleading team. The day we received our uniforms I cried when I returned to the safety of my bedroom. These were not tears of joy. As I looked at my skirt, I felt deeply disgusted. Was I the fattest girl on the squad?
November 21st, 2000: "You're only allowed to have one bowl of cereal in the morning. And you know you're only permitted to have Poptarts on Fridays when we go to church before school." No frosting.
July 13th, 2001: "Danielle, you should probably do some crunches. You're looking a little chunky." I retreated to my room and cried myself to sleep. Whether I was aware of this fact at the time or not, my mom had just validated every body image issue I had ever felt. No longer was this torturous feeling I endured just an abstract thought; it was real.
May 25th, 2006: Bathing suits flying, towels being packed, the smell of sunscreen lingers, don't forget your sunglasses. The Hayden's were headed to Hawaii. The house was a frenzy, stress was welling up. Following an abnormally large Kentucky-style dinner and dessert I felt this odd inkling. My stomach was pushing out, uncomfortably so. As my family ran around preparing I snuck off to the bathroom, stuck my finger down my throat and made myself throw up. Horrified at what I'd just done, I decided to never repeat the behavior. I had just turned eighteen.
May 23rd, 2008. It was my twentieth birthday. I concocted some lame excuse to go use an alternate bathroom and started down a very dark path. Intelligent as I am, I had an entire plan formulated before exiting the restroom. I would eat a "normal" amount of food (which I usually didn't do), purge after putting anything in my mouth, and exercise like I was training for the Olympics. After I reached my goal I would finally be complete. I had the grades, I had the potential, I had the attitude, the determination, and more. I would finally have the body I had longed for since childhood. I would finally fit in. Just as I knew it would, my scheme fell into place perfectly. To be honest, I'd never been happier.
As the months went on I noticed I could start eating whatever I wanted. I could indulge, even over-indulge, and it didn't matter. I began sneaking food at every opportunity I could find. All my money was spent on take-out or at sit-down restaurants. I thought I was happy.
August 8th, 2008: It was the first time I'd ever seen my mom cry; my parents had found out. I was taken to a therapist. After one session it was determined that I had simply been stressed and wanted control; I understood the ramifications of my actions and would never do it again. "Well, that was easy." For three days I ate nothing but frozen grapes. On day four, the cycle resumed. It was at this moment that I realized I would not be able to stop. But I didn't care.
I had become addicted. I was trapped inside myself. I was stuck. When I was away at school I charted out the perfect places to purge. It was easy. It was fun. It was mine. In Owensboro it was more tricky, but as a math enthusiast there was no problem I wouldn't take on, no challenge I wouldn't face. Within ten minutes I had a map - always an precise position to put me where I needed to be to fulfill my urges, my routine. Friends knew but wouldn't say, family hypothesized but would never address.
Seven Cheez-Its. Seven. This is the smallest amount of food I've ever purged. I could keep nothing down. Nothing. It became as natural as eating, as normal as meals. My mind had become so intertwined with my eating disorder that I could not discern logic from irrational thoughts. Body dis-morphia haunted me.
June 13th, 2012: "Are you ok?" The entire hallway had gone black and faded in toward the center of my vision. I then fainted in the hallway. I opened my eyes, light-headed and dizzy, completely unaware of my surroundings. It was later, in the hospital, that I discovered my potassium level was fatally low. My mind snapped and registered - I could have died. I was admitted for the night and the tests began.
June 14th, 2012: ED: 1, Danielle:0 I couldn't even go one meal without purging. Actually, it was quite the opposite. After being in the hospital and receiving IV's and soup I was ready to lose the extra I'd put on. I started a cleanse of sorts. Had to lose as quickly as possible. And I did. To compensate for the lack of potassium and electrolytes I added Vitamin Water to my daily regiment. I was so deeply pleased with the results from my disorder that I couldn't let it go. I wasn't ready to be free; I wasn't ready to be alone.
I pushed all my emotions aside and swam in the comfort of my disorder, my constant. I'd lost myself, my identity. I had no control.
December 28th, 2012: Covered in bruises, smallest I'd ever been, shivering from the cold, shaking from exhaustion - Merry Christmas. My parents sat me down in the living room with looks on their face I'd never seen before. As they spoke the world seemed to freeze. "Treatment, worried, recovery, die." I could only take in a few words. Never once had my family expressed any sort of emotion like this. We gloss things over, we keep them to ourselves, we dwell then drown in our feelings. "Treatment facility." I almost threw up.
January 7th, 2013: Welcome to the Bella Vita. I was twenty-four years old.
“Take a breath; just breathe. Relax for a moment and approach this calmly. Hah! Yeah right.” My mind drifts away as I start to ponder the beginning of my eating disorder. “I have an eating disorder." It took me four years to say this out loud. I almost felt that if I did not utter the words vocally that the statement would not hold true. “If I don’t admit it, if I don’t say it, there’s really no problem. I’m fine.”
May 23rd, 2008: Our former high school class president was throwing an unofficial two year class reunion at her farm. Per usual I was at my best friend's house preparing to go out. I remember everything in vivid detail. We had invaded the basement bathroom with straighteners, make-up, hair spray, and seemingly every article of clothing we owned; sipping on her parents whiskey, refilling the bottles with water, as if that would fool them. Earlier that day we had gone shopping – I needed a new pair of jeans. That was my tipping point. I had gone to American Eagle, which had the only jeans that would fit me since I’m abnormally short, and had to buy the largest pair of jeans I had ever owned. I remember trying on three different pairs hoping it wasn't true; but it was. I was the biggest I had ever been. My mind started spiraling in a tornado of self-damaging thoughts. Looking in the mirror while prepping I realized I had to be rid of this distressing feeling; I had to numb the pain. I had to finally fulfill the only void I've ever felt in my life (which we’ll get to later). I had to achieve “perfection”. I had to be desirable. I had to be thin – whatever the cost. It was in that exact moment that I made the conscious decision to have an eating disorder. It was my twentieth birthday.
December 24th, 1992: Derby pies, deviled eggs, sugar cookies, smoked ham, veggie tray, velvet cake, potato casserole, pecan pie: Christmas Eve, Coomes' style. Snow covered the ground, adults covered the kitchen - no children allowed. We congregated under the tree, stealthily (or so we thought) counting our presents, evaluating who had more and, most importantly, who had the biggest. My cousin and I always had the same number and the same size gifts as we were only a month apart in age. As we assumed our designated positions on the floor I distinctly remember the first time I compared myself physically to someone. She had always been taller then me, as my immediate family lacks in the height department, but what I was experiencing was an entirely new, unfamiliar emotion for me. I looked at my dress, I focused on my stomach, my legs, my face. I felt pain, hurt. I felt fat. I was four years old.
August 10th, 1994: First day of first grade. White collar shirt, navy blue slacks. Typical Catholic school: everyone wore uniforms, everyone looked the same. Right? Shortest one in the class, little dirty-blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl, sharpened pencil in hand curiosity written all over my face. As the classroom filled my face slowly sunk. Withdrawn, disconnected, thoughts plummeting downward. Knots in my stomach, lumps in my throat. "Why am I fatter than everyone else? Why is my belly bigger; why do my legs take up more room?" I was six years old.
August 14th, 1996: Welcome to third grade! Top of my class, sharp and sarcastic. Why did I feel this overwhelming urge to fit in? I believed I would not be accepted for who I was. My biggest fear, unbeknownst to me at the time, was being alone. Daily I obsessed over my size, silently. At lunch time I would purposely never finish my food. Didn't help. Every night before bed, after brushing my teeth and saying my prayers, I'd lay down and squeeze my rib cage together as tightly as I could attempting to make it smaller. Every night. I was eight years old.
May 24th, 2000: "As we go on, we remember, all the times we had together..." Sixth grade graduation. Fancy sun-dresses, heels and frills - moving on to middle school. As I stood behind the pulpit I nervously tugged on my dress - my sleeves were too tight, my arms looked too big, my hips looked extraordinarily large because of the way the slip was falling. I could not concentrate. "Focus Danielle." I made it through my solo and the remainder of mass. Afterward I proceeded to change into my favorite outfit. However, once I exited the bathroom and confronted my classmates I was struck with shame. Immediately I withdrew into myself. "Why do I feel this way? Why can't I fix myself? I tried a few months ago." I was determined to be heard. I needed to express my excruciating affliction. First, I climbed the magnolia tree in the front yard and jumped out, landing on the side of my ankles. I did this numerous times to no avail. I was upset and repeatedly hit my arm on the sharp corner of my desk. I wanted to break it. I wanted it to hurt. It was incredibly painful, but I shed no tears. I started riding my bike slamming the same spot over and over on the handle bars. When I got back to the house I told my mother I fell off my bike. She paid me no heed. The next day, after seeing the swelling and plethora of bruises she took me to the doctor. I had broken my arm. To this day she does not know I fractured my arm intentionally. I was twelve years old.
September 15th, 2000: Congratulations! I had made the cheerleading team. The day we received our uniforms I cried when I returned to the safety of my bedroom. These were not tears of joy. As I looked at my skirt, I felt deeply disgusted. Was I the fattest girl on the squad?
November 21st, 2000: "You're only allowed to have one bowl of cereal in the morning. And you know you're only permitted to have Poptarts on Fridays when we go to church before school." No frosting.
July 13th, 2001: "Danielle, you should probably do some crunches. You're looking a little chunky." I retreated to my room and cried myself to sleep. Whether I was aware of this fact at the time or not, my mom had just validated every body image issue I had ever felt. No longer was this torturous feeling I endured just an abstract thought; it was real.
May 25th, 2006: Bathing suits flying, towels being packed, the smell of sunscreen lingers, don't forget your sunglasses. The Hayden's were headed to Hawaii. The house was a frenzy, stress was welling up. Following an abnormally large Kentucky-style dinner and dessert I felt this odd inkling. My stomach was pushing out, uncomfortably so. As my family ran around preparing I snuck off to the bathroom, stuck my finger down my throat and made myself throw up. Horrified at what I'd just done, I decided to never repeat the behavior. I had just turned eighteen.
May 23rd, 2008. It was my twentieth birthday. I concocted some lame excuse to go use an alternate bathroom and started down a very dark path. Intelligent as I am, I had an entire plan formulated before exiting the restroom. I would eat a "normal" amount of food (which I usually didn't do), purge after putting anything in my mouth, and exercise like I was training for the Olympics. After I reached my goal I would finally be complete. I had the grades, I had the potential, I had the attitude, the determination, and more. I would finally have the body I had longed for since childhood. I would finally fit in. Just as I knew it would, my scheme fell into place perfectly. To be honest, I'd never been happier.
As the months went on I noticed I could start eating whatever I wanted. I could indulge, even over-indulge, and it didn't matter. I began sneaking food at every opportunity I could find. All my money was spent on take-out or at sit-down restaurants. I thought I was happy.
August 8th, 2008: It was the first time I'd ever seen my mom cry; my parents had found out. I was taken to a therapist. After one session it was determined that I had simply been stressed and wanted control; I understood the ramifications of my actions and would never do it again. "Well, that was easy." For three days I ate nothing but frozen grapes. On day four, the cycle resumed. It was at this moment that I realized I would not be able to stop. But I didn't care.
I had become addicted. I was trapped inside myself. I was stuck. When I was away at school I charted out the perfect places to purge. It was easy. It was fun. It was mine. In Owensboro it was more tricky, but as a math enthusiast there was no problem I wouldn't take on, no challenge I wouldn't face. Within ten minutes I had a map - always an precise position to put me where I needed to be to fulfill my urges, my routine. Friends knew but wouldn't say, family hypothesized but would never address.
Seven Cheez-Its. Seven. This is the smallest amount of food I've ever purged. I could keep nothing down. Nothing. It became as natural as eating, as normal as meals. My mind had become so intertwined with my eating disorder that I could not discern logic from irrational thoughts. Body dis-morphia haunted me.
June 13th, 2012: "Are you ok?" The entire hallway had gone black and faded in toward the center of my vision. I then fainted in the hallway. I opened my eyes, light-headed and dizzy, completely unaware of my surroundings. It was later, in the hospital, that I discovered my potassium level was fatally low. My mind snapped and registered - I could have died. I was admitted for the night and the tests began.
June 14th, 2012: ED: 1, Danielle:0 I couldn't even go one meal without purging. Actually, it was quite the opposite. After being in the hospital and receiving IV's and soup I was ready to lose the extra I'd put on. I started a cleanse of sorts. Had to lose as quickly as possible. And I did. To compensate for the lack of potassium and electrolytes I added Vitamin Water to my daily regiment. I was so deeply pleased with the results from my disorder that I couldn't let it go. I wasn't ready to be free; I wasn't ready to be alone.
I pushed all my emotions aside and swam in the comfort of my disorder, my constant. I'd lost myself, my identity. I had no control.
December 28th, 2012: Covered in bruises, smallest I'd ever been, shivering from the cold, shaking from exhaustion - Merry Christmas. My parents sat me down in the living room with looks on their face I'd never seen before. As they spoke the world seemed to freeze. "Treatment, worried, recovery, die." I could only take in a few words. Never once had my family expressed any sort of emotion like this. We gloss things over, we keep them to ourselves, we dwell then drown in our feelings. "Treatment facility." I almost threw up.
January 7th, 2013: Welcome to the Bella Vita. I was twenty-four years old.
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
One Step Forward, Two Miles Back
Recovery, relapse, retreat, resist
Regurgitate, resume, reject, repeat
Redirect, rephrase, relive, relieve
Rationalize, reason, repress, resent
Recluse, resume, reduce, restrict
I feel as if I'm at a fork in the road - actually it's more of a "y". On one side there's recovery: the pathway to a new, revived life. On the other there's the seduction of relapse: being pulled back into the darkness which has been my life, my comfort, for the past five years. Like a magnetic force it draws my curiosity toward it. If I plummet even further into the abyss what might I get out of it? Where might I go? Could it be better, more attractive, than recovery? It's certainly more unpredictable, more of a thrill. What am I looking for; what will satisfy my hunger?
I'm staring at my potential paths and am in complete disbelief and shock at reality: I've taken more steps toward the dark, the possibilities derived from the unknown. This isn't the girl I know - who am I becoming? The fact that I am sitting here writing this almost proves to myself that I've already made my decision. I wanted to act like I needed a pro/con list of sorts - like I needed to debate my choices and rationalize before making the final decision. But it's too late isn't it...
Regurgitate, resume, reject, repeat
Redirect, rephrase, relive, relieve
Rationalize, reason, repress, resent
Recluse, resume, reduce, restrict
I feel as if I'm at a fork in the road - actually it's more of a "y". On one side there's recovery: the pathway to a new, revived life. On the other there's the seduction of relapse: being pulled back into the darkness which has been my life, my comfort, for the past five years. Like a magnetic force it draws my curiosity toward it. If I plummet even further into the abyss what might I get out of it? Where might I go? Could it be better, more attractive, than recovery? It's certainly more unpredictable, more of a thrill. What am I looking for; what will satisfy my hunger?
I'm staring at my potential paths and am in complete disbelief and shock at reality: I've taken more steps toward the dark, the possibilities derived from the unknown. This isn't the girl I know - who am I becoming? The fact that I am sitting here writing this almost proves to myself that I've already made my decision. I wanted to act like I needed a pro/con list of sorts - like I needed to debate my choices and rationalize before making the final decision. But it's too late isn't it...
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
"Fixed"
I want to be thin
I want to see my bones
I want to disappear
I want to be weightless
I want to be invisible
I want to be sick
I want to be dark
I want to have issues
I want to be mysterious
I want to be damaged
I want to be neglected
I want to be ignored
I want to sabotage relationships
I want to be alone
I want to numb the pain
I want to be depressed
I want to be a mess
I want to be addicted
I want to isolate myself
I want to be broken
I want to be guarded
I want to succeed at failing
I want to give up
I want to close up
I want to break down
I want to go down
I want to be rejected
I want to "get cut"
I want to be wrecked
I want to binge
I want to restrict
I want to repeat
I want to be bulimic
I want to be anorexic
I don't want to be "fixed"
I want to see my bones
I want to disappear
I want to be weightless
I want to be invisible
I want to be sick
I want to be dark
I want to have issues
I want to be mysterious
I want to be damaged
I want to be neglected
I want to be ignored
I want to sabotage relationships
I want to be alone
I want to numb the pain
I want to be depressed
I want to be a mess
I want to be addicted
I want to isolate myself
I want to be broken
I want to be guarded
I want to succeed at failing
I want to give up
I want to close up
I want to break down
I want to go down
I want to be rejected
I want to "get cut"
I want to be wrecked
I want to binge
I want to restrict
I want to repeat
I want to be bulimic
I want to be anorexic
I don't want to be "fixed"
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