Happiness is a foreign concept. I've been taking my meds consistently, so i'm less depressed. I'm no longer on an emotional roller-coaster of extreme rage and extreme lethargy. That must mean I'm happy, right? I don't know how to sit with this balanced feeling. Depression and anger weigh down on me so heavily; I'm grounded. Happiness lifts me up. There are so many possibilities in happiness. This loss of control, this infinite space is daunting. I cringe when I simply say the word, "happy". The internal voice that resounds is "You don't deserve to be happy", "Happiness doesn't last". The world is not a good place. It's full of distrust, manipulation, and corruption. If I'm happy, if my emotions aren't congruent to this world-view, I must be crazy. I must be in a psychotic episode. Eventually, soon enough, I will be hit with reality and will be thrown back into a state of depression once again. How can I be happy amidst all the shit going on in the world? Because logically, I feel like I make sense. The world is fucked up -> I live in this fucked up world -> How can I not be perpetually angry? -> I must be crazy. "You don't deserve to be happy". I feel like I'm doing something wrong when I'm not feeling negative emotions, especially when I think of my mom. I pissed of my mom my entire life. How dare I be happy while the one who brought me to this earth is debilitated by depression? I feel like I don't deserve to feel this way. It will be easier to accept happiness if my mom could accept happiness. I feel like I'm cheating her...if that makes sense. Am I making any sense? Blahblahblah.
I have trouble being honest with myself about how I'm feeling. In the mornings, I'm not particularly in a good or bad mood. I just am. Somewhere in the undefined middle. But I tell myself and others that I'm anxious and irritable not only because it's easier to say, but also because I want to set the tone for the rest of my day. I want to feel anxious and irritable. I know them very well and I know hot to carry myself. If I say I'm happy or even "content", I feel like I have to behave in some sort of way that's not natural for me. I'm used to pretending I'm OK, but when I really am OK, I get lost. I feel like a phony, like I'm playing some kind of character. I feel like I'm going to throw my arms up and scream like a hysterical idiot, then combust into confetti. Just kidding. That's impossible. But you know what I mean. Right? I feel crazy. Is this what "normal" people feel on a day-to-day basis? Is this what it feels like to be alive? Or am I getting way too ahead of myself? Yea, I probably am. But I'm so confused, curious, fascinated, and overwhelmed by this surge of...increasing positivity.
I feel like a completely different person. I almost feel like I've missed out on something, like I haven't been living. I thought all the drugs, alcohol, and ED behaviors meant I was really living. Not giving a flying fuck. I mean I guess I was. Just in a different way. I feel like I've been opened up to a whole new range of possibilities. Healthy possibilities, potential for sustainable satisfaction. I feel like a kid who made friends on her first day of school and ran home to tell her parents, except I'm rambling about it here. I'm almost embarrassed about feeling this way. Like positivity and hope are things to be ashamed of. So to my boyfriend who may read this, I'm sorry if I act funky. It's because I'm feeling something very unfamiliar and I don't know how to sit with it without being totally confused and bewildered, or exploding in uncontrollable laughter. You are awesome and I love you.
Friday, March 29, 2013
Thursday, March 28, 2013
Orange and Almonds
Sometimes I get random bursts of "this-isn't-too-hard-I-think-I-can-recover" feelings. Like on Wednesday when the dietitian discontinued one of my daily supplements because I'm in my goal weight range. That's 360 less calories I'm consuming every day. Threehundredsixty. How is goal weight range determined anyway? I know height is one of the factors, but what else? Can't I be at a healthy weight if my blood work comes back normal? As I look down at my body now, I see all my hard work flushed down the drain (pun intended). It's a loss I'm not sure I'm ready to grieve. The "dieting" I've done for 10 years that gave me the body I wanted, has nothing to show for except psychological damage and "paper thin" enamels. But this random burst of "this-isn't-too-hard-I-think-I-can-recover" feeling is pretty cool, I guess.
I've stayed in my eating disorder for many reasons, one being my thrill-seeking personality that led me to see how close I could get to death and live to tell about it. For how long I could deny myself of a basic need that others seem to weakly give in to. For how long I could have this intense and endless binge-purge-engulf-restrict battle with myself. And it's definitely been a satisfying thrill. Now, I kind of want to see and explore the uncharted territory of healthy, "normal" living. That's thrill-seeking too, right? How much weight can I gain and be accepting of my body? How much self-care can I do to be comfortable in my skin? How much self-exploration can I do to accept compassion from others? These are questions that I've just recently become curious of. I think the meds are helping me keep my head above waters in that respect. Other days, I want to stay nestled in my familiar, much-known territory of self-loathing. But I look down at my body today and think, "This isn't too bad." I'm nowhere near the size I would like to be, but I know that's my eating disorder talking. When people tell me, "You look better", "You look healthy", I cringe. Healthy=not skinny=fat=failure. But I think I can grow (pun not intended) to accept my physical self. My dietitian will probably discontinue my 2nd daily supplement and eventually decrease my meal plan, then I will lose some weight and be thinner again. That isn't the best rationalization, but it's working in my favor, so I'm going to stick with it.
I've always analogized myself in sobriety/abstinence to a new-born who just opened her eyes: scared and vulnerable, yet fascinated and curious, always in need of supervision to make sure I am safe and stable. Seeing things a bit more in-depth than the grown-ups. It's a weird feeling that I think I'm willing to continue sitting with.
Now, for an awesome picture:
I've stayed in my eating disorder for many reasons, one being my thrill-seeking personality that led me to see how close I could get to death and live to tell about it. For how long I could deny myself of a basic need that others seem to weakly give in to. For how long I could have this intense and endless binge-purge-engulf-restrict battle with myself. And it's definitely been a satisfying thrill. Now, I kind of want to see and explore the uncharted territory of healthy, "normal" living. That's thrill-seeking too, right? How much weight can I gain and be accepting of my body? How much self-care can I do to be comfortable in my skin? How much self-exploration can I do to accept compassion from others? These are questions that I've just recently become curious of. I think the meds are helping me keep my head above waters in that respect. Other days, I want to stay nestled in my familiar, much-known territory of self-loathing. But I look down at my body today and think, "This isn't too bad." I'm nowhere near the size I would like to be, but I know that's my eating disorder talking. When people tell me, "You look better", "You look healthy", I cringe. Healthy=not skinny=fat=failure. But I think I can grow (pun not intended) to accept my physical self. My dietitian will probably discontinue my 2nd daily supplement and eventually decrease my meal plan, then I will lose some weight and be thinner again. That isn't the best rationalization, but it's working in my favor, so I'm going to stick with it.
I've always analogized myself in sobriety/abstinence to a new-born who just opened her eyes: scared and vulnerable, yet fascinated and curious, always in need of supervision to make sure I am safe and stable. Seeing things a bit more in-depth than the grown-ups. It's a weird feeling that I think I'm willing to continue sitting with.
Now, for an awesome picture:
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
Troll Bogies
Harry Potter marathon + tea + exercise = pleasure + pain
I was not allowed to check in to treatment today for arriving late from the DPSS office. I was seen as "being disrespectful" and "giving attitude". I couldn't care less what the staff think; I just hope my insurance company doesn't fuck me over for prioritizing.
So I got back home with a strong urge to binge and purge. After all, I received an EBT card today. I don't have to feel as bad about binging since I'm technically using my own money. I fantasized about having my 2nd final hurrah with ED ever since I became abstinent. However, instead of binging and purging I exercised. Nothing intense...I think. But it was compulsive. Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone was playing while I sipped tea and did crunches and ass exercises. Surprisingly, I ate dinner but not according to my meal plan. Why am I confessing my behaviors on this blog? Don't I fear being held accountable? Yes I do, but my fingers are typing on their own and I'm too lazy to delete it.
I wish my life was like Harry Potter's. Own a sweet pet owl, fly around in a broom stick, and kiss Hermione Granger.
Anyway, I'm going to be home alone for several hours because my boyfriend has lots of things to take care of tonight. Binging is still on my mind. What's stopping me? It's not having to restart my abstinent count-up; it's not the feeling of guilt that should follow a slip-up; it's the disappointed look I will receive from my boyfriend, which will be followed by feelings of incompetence, shame, hopelessness. Hopeless about our relationship moving forward and no longer remaining stagnant. Shameful about being a shitty girlfriend. Incompetent about being a shameful, hopeless, self-loathing human being. Guilt is my driving force, and I hate it. It's too much pressure, too much frustration. I feel pathetic. I don't want pity or sympathy. I just want to put my thoughts into words in hopes of lighting some kind of fire under my ass to do something about it. But I'm trying my best. At least, I think I am. I'm attending treatment everyday (with the exception of today, but today doesn't count because I had a forgivable reason), participating to the best of my abilities, saying positive self-affirmations, using coping tools, and all those other therapeutic hoo-has. They don't seem to be working. So I tell myself to be patient and remind myself, "progress, not perfection".
Boredom
kills.
I was not allowed to check in to treatment today for arriving late from the DPSS office. I was seen as "being disrespectful" and "giving attitude". I couldn't care less what the staff think; I just hope my insurance company doesn't fuck me over for prioritizing.
So I got back home with a strong urge to binge and purge. After all, I received an EBT card today. I don't have to feel as bad about binging since I'm technically using my own money. I fantasized about having my 2nd final hurrah with ED ever since I became abstinent. However, instead of binging and purging I exercised. Nothing intense...I think. But it was compulsive. Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone was playing while I sipped tea and did crunches and ass exercises. Surprisingly, I ate dinner but not according to my meal plan. Why am I confessing my behaviors on this blog? Don't I fear being held accountable? Yes I do, but my fingers are typing on their own and I'm too lazy to delete it.
I wish my life was like Harry Potter's. Own a sweet pet owl, fly around in a broom stick, and kiss Hermione Granger.
Anyway, I'm going to be home alone for several hours because my boyfriend has lots of things to take care of tonight. Binging is still on my mind. What's stopping me? It's not having to restart my abstinent count-up; it's not the feeling of guilt that should follow a slip-up; it's the disappointed look I will receive from my boyfriend, which will be followed by feelings of incompetence, shame, hopelessness. Hopeless about our relationship moving forward and no longer remaining stagnant. Shameful about being a shitty girlfriend. Incompetent about being a shameful, hopeless, self-loathing human being. Guilt is my driving force, and I hate it. It's too much pressure, too much frustration. I feel pathetic. I don't want pity or sympathy. I just want to put my thoughts into words in hopes of lighting some kind of fire under my ass to do something about it. But I'm trying my best. At least, I think I am. I'm attending treatment everyday (with the exception of today, but today doesn't count because I had a forgivable reason), participating to the best of my abilities, saying positive self-affirmations, using coping tools, and all those other therapeutic hoo-has. They don't seem to be working. So I tell myself to be patient and remind myself, "progress, not perfection".
Boredom
kills.
Monday, March 25, 2013
Fuck it
3/25/13
Damned anti-depressants are giving me results that I am not very fond of:
--crazy, vivid dreams
--headaches that feel like a balloon is being inflated behind my temples
--restlessness- I have all this pent up energy in me and I don't know how to exert it. It's not caffeine-induced.
--a strange non-desire (is that a word?) to obsess over negative thoughts or glorify suicide
I find the last one to be particularly bothersome. I'm a habitual Debby Downer, and have been for most of my life. Unsurprisingly my alcoholism, drug-use, and eating disorder have perpetuated this comfortable cloud of a depression into a frenzy of careless debauchery which I have grown to accept and appreciate. Yes, I appreciate my depression. It's the only thing that I am familiar with. Of course, it encompasses neglect, isolation, episodes of extreme emotional bouts, episodes of staring off into space for hours, but it's what I'm used to and I'm hesitant to letting it go. It's like my guardian against the world. And the damned anti-depressants are like invaders trying to wring it away from me, leaving me feeling cold and vulnerable. I haven't had the chance to sink into my comfortable cloud for a while now. And as the days pass, I feel like the cloud is getting thinner and thinner, and the invaders are fighting to have me fall through and join the rest of the earthlings in a place where emotions are dynamic and human-interaction is necessary. Painfully. I don't like communicating. I don't like conversing with people, especially with other clients. I don't mind so much communicating with therapists or doctors because there is a clear role for me to play.
But with clients, I don't have a role. I'm one of them. The eating disorder connects all of us, and so does the fucked-up daddy issues. I was comfortable in my ED and in my depression until the prescriptions came along. Taking the meds is part of my treatment plan and my boyfriend would kill me (not literally) if I came off them, so I am playing the role of a "good client". I thought if one takes anti-depressants when having suicidal thoughts, the suicidal thoughts may increase? My ST were intense..shouldn't they definitely increase? This not-particularly-depressing mood leaves me confused. I don't feel like being a hermit anymore. I can't be a hermit even if I wanted to because it's part of my treatment plan to actually attend treatment 6 days a week. I'm actually beginning to share more in groups. ME. The fucking Debby-Downer-don't-talk-to-me-I-hate-people attitude is slowly fading away just like the comfortable cloud that has held me up and protected me.
So this socializing tendency is creeping in on me and I'm freaking out because I have gnarly social anxiety. I bounce from talking about one subject to another, forget what the original topic was, and find myself talking about things like crayons and squirrels. Even writing this post is taking up so much of my mental energy. It's been 2 hours since I've started writing. Not so much editing what I've written so far, but just stopping myself from writing totally nonsensical, irrelevant rambles. What was the purpose of this post anyway? Oh yea, damned anti-depressants.
Fuck it.
Damned anti-depressants are giving me results that I am not very fond of:
--crazy, vivid dreams
--headaches that feel like a balloon is being inflated behind my temples
--restlessness- I have all this pent up energy in me and I don't know how to exert it. It's not caffeine-induced.
--a strange non-desire (is that a word?) to obsess over negative thoughts or glorify suicide
I find the last one to be particularly bothersome. I'm a habitual Debby Downer, and have been for most of my life. Unsurprisingly my alcoholism, drug-use, and eating disorder have perpetuated this comfortable cloud of a depression into a frenzy of careless debauchery which I have grown to accept and appreciate. Yes, I appreciate my depression. It's the only thing that I am familiar with. Of course, it encompasses neglect, isolation, episodes of extreme emotional bouts, episodes of staring off into space for hours, but it's what I'm used to and I'm hesitant to letting it go. It's like my guardian against the world. And the damned anti-depressants are like invaders trying to wring it away from me, leaving me feeling cold and vulnerable. I haven't had the chance to sink into my comfortable cloud for a while now. And as the days pass, I feel like the cloud is getting thinner and thinner, and the invaders are fighting to have me fall through and join the rest of the earthlings in a place where emotions are dynamic and human-interaction is necessary. Painfully. I don't like communicating. I don't like conversing with people, especially with other clients. I don't mind so much communicating with therapists or doctors because there is a clear role for me to play.
But with clients, I don't have a role. I'm one of them. The eating disorder connects all of us, and so does the fucked-up daddy issues. I was comfortable in my ED and in my depression until the prescriptions came along. Taking the meds is part of my treatment plan and my boyfriend would kill me (not literally) if I came off them, so I am playing the role of a "good client". I thought if one takes anti-depressants when having suicidal thoughts, the suicidal thoughts may increase? My ST were intense..shouldn't they definitely increase? This not-particularly-depressing mood leaves me confused. I don't feel like being a hermit anymore. I can't be a hermit even if I wanted to because it's part of my treatment plan to actually attend treatment 6 days a week. I'm actually beginning to share more in groups. ME. The fucking Debby-Downer-don't-talk-to-me-I-hate-people attitude is slowly fading away just like the comfortable cloud that has held me up and protected me.
So this socializing tendency is creeping in on me and I'm freaking out because I have gnarly social anxiety. I bounce from talking about one subject to another, forget what the original topic was, and find myself talking about things like crayons and squirrels. Even writing this post is taking up so much of my mental energy. It's been 2 hours since I've started writing. Not so much editing what I've written so far, but just stopping myself from writing totally nonsensical, irrelevant rambles. What was the purpose of this post anyway? Oh yea, damned anti-depressants.
Fuck it.
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