Fickle, Fickle, In a Pickle

"I'm alone, on my own and I'm starting off
I'll be strong, I'll be wrong, oh, but life goes on
Oh, I'm just a girl trying to find a place in this world"

Where is my place? What is my path? Where am I going? I've gotten so turned around I don't even know anymore. This is where I am.

For years my direction was clear. Then I became more and more enmeshed with my eating disorder that my mind lost the ability to function normally and waged war against all that stood in the way of my sickness. Threats were not taken lightly. I'd rebel, remain secretive, pull away and finally push away.

In the beginning I flat out fought against those holding me back from my control, altering my plans. I'm scrappy and I rebelled. I'd always win. But you can't remain in a state of war and maintain a healthy relationship. Subconsciously I didn't want to. I sabotaged loved ones in my life, setting us up for inevitable disaster. Slowly I began to care and Dr. Jekyll started fighting Mr. Hyde back. Now there is the battle I force upon others only to eventually drive them away and the battle with myself that is a continuous tug-of-war.

My hands are shaking, trembling from this other battle that is constantly raging in my head. It's loud. It's vivid and occasionally, but more frequently now, bloody. It's terrifying. It's daily. It's perpetual.

Throughout the day I struggle with the ever present urge to just give up, give in and stop. I stare off into space. I'm distant, gone, numb. I'm not happy; I'm not sad. I'm non responsive and uncaring, nonchalant. As I drift away inside my head I start to imagine, almost see, graphic things - things horror stories and night terrors are comprised of. I see myself hurt, bloody, broken, dead. Last night I fantasized about slitting my wrists. Before, I wanted to burn my skin with cigarettes - feel the pain, endure it, make it real. Sometimes these scenes scare me; most of the time they don't.

All the while I'm trying to get my life back on track - the problem is I can't find the track. I've returned to work and am out of treatment. I am personally seeing to the diabolical destruction of my relationship: the main, underlying reason why I moved to California. Do I stay or should I go?

Back in eighth grade my first boyfriend said to me after I had broken up with him for the second time, "you are so fickle, Danielle." First off, I was offended simply by the tone which was obviously meant as an insult. Since I didn't know what the word meant I grabbed the nearest dictionary and sure enough my picture was printed there and my name was listed as a synonym.

You are so fickle, Danielle.