I just got back from a little Christmas vacation. I stayed at my parents' house for a week before Christmas, and then Andrew came over Christmas eve. I think it's pretty funny that just a week or two before I went home for Christmas, I was blubbering about how much I loved my family and missed them and regret not spending time with them. By the end of that week at home, though, I was so bored out of my mind that I can do without them for a good few months. I think I'm old enough now that I don't want them telling me what I can or can't/should or shouldn't do with my life anymore (....but I still need their money).
The day after Christmas, Andrew and I met his parents in Savannah. It was a fun trip, but I couldn't make it a whole trip without getting bent out of shape about something. I was mad at Andrew for something or another for an entire morning, but after a few diet cokes and some lunch, I eventually had to let go of it. It was stupid anyway, and not worth ruining anymore time. My parents came up Monday to have lunch with us, so the parents met! Yikes! I was kind of dreading it, but ended up getting pretty drunk so I don't even remember it much. I often drink to ease my anxiety. That doesn't make me an alcoholic, right?
Oh geez - this whole bike present idea for Andrew was killer! Now that we both have bikes, he wants to ride all the time. Tuesday we went on our first ride together and he took me through some woods trail. We had to jump over all these roots and go over little wooden bridges. I was scared to death. So then Wednesday he wanted to go twice the distance through woodsy trails. I said "can we just stay on pavement? I thought we were going to start out slow on paved trails." He hmmed and hawwed for a while and said we should just continue the trail we were on the day before until it ends. Okkkkk. So we got going again through the woods. I have never biked off road before, so I quickly got all out of control. The path started getting more and more complicated with like whole trees down across it that we are supposed to jump over or something. I kept getting off and walking over all these obstacles, but then we started going downhill and had to make a sharp turn with rocks bordering one side of the trail, and bushes on the other. Of course, I didn't make the turn fast enough, flew off my bike, and landed on my ass. I was secretly praying that my chain was broken or something so that I wouldn't have to continue. Andrew was ahead of me, so it took him a few minutes to realize I wasn't behind him anymore. He turned around and I was still on the ground, stunned. He came back and I stood up, trying not to cry. He said we could head back, and I couldn't help but say "I told you. I told you I wasn't ready for this. I wanted to stay on pavement." He apologized, and tried to explain some of the technique of mountain biking. I never knew there was so much shit. I just thought you got on and rode around. Apparently you have to change gears a million times and stand up the whole time and shift your weight back and forward and use rear brakes and... do wheelies... and all kinds of stuff. So anyway, on our way back, he started trying to explain some of these things to me (thanks for waiting until AFTER I fall to teach me) and we got to a tree that went across the trail that we had to jump over. I got scared as I got closer and closer to it, and at the last second I tried to stop and get off my bike. Well, you can't do that ("commit or quit!" as stated by debbie on some mountain biking instructional website). So I fell again! Splat into a pile of leaves - which actually turned out a lot better than the first fall onto rocks and dirt. We took it slow the rest of the way back and he gave me more guidance. It turns out, it's a lot easier if you use technique. In fact, it's a lot like skiing if you ask me: it takes a lot more work to be out of control than to do it right, and you can only be out of control for so long before you wipe out. So, that was my second mountain biking experience. I'm praying for rain tonight so we can take a break - my ass is so sore!
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Monday, December 21, 2009
YAY CHRISTMAS BREAK!!
So I fancied up my blog a bit. I'm so proud of myself for being tech savvy. The picture at the top of the page is my pup Luce (more on that later). I've been uber productive on this break from school. So far in addition to fixing up my blog, I have knitted a bandanna for Luce that has a paw print on it that looks more like a blotch of blue yarn and a ribbed hat that fits my head circumference but is more like a yamacah length wise. Maybe it will fit my future baby girl (I'm not pregnant, but one day...?). I have also watched half of the DVD's I own, ate enough food for at least three people everyday, and went out with a friend twice. I spent a lot of time getting drunk, too. I've watched about 23 episodes of Law and Order, and I've cleaned my house once. And that's about it.
It was nice to be on break for the first few days, but all that time alone while Andrew was working started getting to me. Just knitting was enough productivity to make me feel better. It's pretty satisfying to create something even if it is ugly and doesn't fit anyone. I started knitting when I got out of the inpatient facility because I needed something to do those first couple months when all I was doing was watching TV all day everyday. That, I have learned, is a sure fire way to keeping yourself depressed. At least knitting made me get out of that zoned out state. The book Stitch N Bitch has some pretty good instructions, although I do find the attempt at humor fairly annoying. It's knitting instructions, not a novel.
So the deal about my pup: I got out of the crisis center for my May attempt at the end of May 2007. I was home for my 21st birthday in June. Right after that - maybe the first of July - my mom took our golden retriever to the groomer. The guy came out with a little puppy in his arms and said she needed a good home. She was an accident - his prize winning standard poodle escaped the pin and made his way into the prize winning pug's pen (who was in heat). A few months later they had three little mistakes. They were all black with a little white patch on their chests, bad underbites, and a mix of wiry long but not curly hair. Their tails curled up once instead of the many curls of a pug, and their noses were only a little squished. At the time, we (and the vet) had no idea how big or small they'd turn out. My mom immediately melted at the site of a puppy and said she'd take it. She was so excited and came to get me so we could bring the tiny little pup home. We put her in a laundry basket with a blanket and she just slept for days and days. My dad came home that first day and walked right past her at first. We were like "didn't you notice anything in that basket?" and he looked down and said "oh shit." He was not happy about our new addition, and said we could keep her but he was not going to take care of her or like her. Yeah right. A couple days later, my mom and I went to Chicago to visit my brother where he was stationed at that time. My dad was forced to take care of her but my mom and I were worried he might get rid of her while we were gone. By the time we got back, he was falling in love with the little runt. She was (and is) the sweetest thing. She has so much love in her little heart. She was born on May 16, 2007. I attempted on May 15, 2007, and was found early morning on May 16 and revived. I like to imagine that she was born just for me. She immediately had some unexplainable bond to me, like dogs usually have with a specific owner. She gave me something to live for. In late July, I returned to the crisis center because I was having trouble. From there I went straight to the inpatient facility where I stayed for almost four months. My parents would bring her down to visit me every couple weeks, and she remembered me everytime. She would be so excited to see me that she would pee everywhere (which she does for anyone new now, but at first it was just me). She was my light and joy, which is why I named her Luce (the Italian word for light). I love that little girl. She's the ugliest thing, and she's incredibly mischeivous and hyper. For the longest time, Andrew was like my dad saying he couldn't like her. Now he gets excited to see her and misses her when I take her to Jacksonville with me. He pays more attention to her than me half the time, and always gets her to sleep on his side of the bed. He loves her.
Oh duh, so I gave Andrew his Christmas present yesterday! What a great day that was. I went to the bike store to pick up the bike, but the bike rack wouldn't go on my car. I was going to have him come get it himself since the rack would go on his car or at least the bike would go IN his car. I didn't want to tell him to meet me there though, because it would be so anti-climactic. Instead, I told him to meet me at this park right down the road from the store. I guess he thought I was just going to rent a tandem bike because we had joked about it before. So I picked up the bike, walked it to the park, and waited for him. I stood kinda far from it so that when he walked up he wouldn't know. I was like "surprise! I'm your present!" and he was confused, but then I said that the real present was over there and pointed to the bike. He was quiet, so I explained that if he didn't like it he could return it and get a better one or whatever. Slowly, he became really excited and jumped on and road around me in circles. Unfortunately, my bike was at my parents house still so I couldn't ride with him. We took it home and went to a nice restaurant for a Christmas date. The food was not worth the price, but it was a perfect night anyway. He later told me that was the best gift he ever got because it was perfect and thoughtful without him even having to ask for it. He immediately started making plans and looking up bike trails in the area. He wants to take a 30 mile trail ride! I don't know if I can handle all that. It should be fun, though, to start this hobby together. What a perfect night!
It was nice to be on break for the first few days, but all that time alone while Andrew was working started getting to me. Just knitting was enough productivity to make me feel better. It's pretty satisfying to create something even if it is ugly and doesn't fit anyone. I started knitting when I got out of the inpatient facility because I needed something to do those first couple months when all I was doing was watching TV all day everyday. That, I have learned, is a sure fire way to keeping yourself depressed. At least knitting made me get out of that zoned out state. The book Stitch N Bitch has some pretty good instructions, although I do find the attempt at humor fairly annoying. It's knitting instructions, not a novel.
So the deal about my pup: I got out of the crisis center for my May attempt at the end of May 2007. I was home for my 21st birthday in June. Right after that - maybe the first of July - my mom took our golden retriever to the groomer. The guy came out with a little puppy in his arms and said she needed a good home. She was an accident - his prize winning standard poodle escaped the pin and made his way into the prize winning pug's pen (who was in heat). A few months later they had three little mistakes. They were all black with a little white patch on their chests, bad underbites, and a mix of wiry long but not curly hair. Their tails curled up once instead of the many curls of a pug, and their noses were only a little squished. At the time, we (and the vet) had no idea how big or small they'd turn out. My mom immediately melted at the site of a puppy and said she'd take it. She was so excited and came to get me so we could bring the tiny little pup home. We put her in a laundry basket with a blanket and she just slept for days and days. My dad came home that first day and walked right past her at first. We were like "didn't you notice anything in that basket?" and he looked down and said "oh shit." He was not happy about our new addition, and said we could keep her but he was not going to take care of her or like her. Yeah right. A couple days later, my mom and I went to Chicago to visit my brother where he was stationed at that time. My dad was forced to take care of her but my mom and I were worried he might get rid of her while we were gone. By the time we got back, he was falling in love with the little runt. She was (and is) the sweetest thing. She has so much love in her little heart. She was born on May 16, 2007. I attempted on May 15, 2007, and was found early morning on May 16 and revived. I like to imagine that she was born just for me. She immediately had some unexplainable bond to me, like dogs usually have with a specific owner. She gave me something to live for. In late July, I returned to the crisis center because I was having trouble. From there I went straight to the inpatient facility where I stayed for almost four months. My parents would bring her down to visit me every couple weeks, and she remembered me everytime. She would be so excited to see me that she would pee everywhere (which she does for anyone new now, but at first it was just me). She was my light and joy, which is why I named her Luce (the Italian word for light). I love that little girl. She's the ugliest thing, and she's incredibly mischeivous and hyper. For the longest time, Andrew was like my dad saying he couldn't like her. Now he gets excited to see her and misses her when I take her to Jacksonville with me. He pays more attention to her than me half the time, and always gets her to sleep on his side of the bed. He loves her.
Oh duh, so I gave Andrew his Christmas present yesterday! What a great day that was. I went to the bike store to pick up the bike, but the bike rack wouldn't go on my car. I was going to have him come get it himself since the rack would go on his car or at least the bike would go IN his car. I didn't want to tell him to meet me there though, because it would be so anti-climactic. Instead, I told him to meet me at this park right down the road from the store. I guess he thought I was just going to rent a tandem bike because we had joked about it before. So I picked up the bike, walked it to the park, and waited for him. I stood kinda far from it so that when he walked up he wouldn't know. I was like "surprise! I'm your present!" and he was confused, but then I said that the real present was over there and pointed to the bike. He was quiet, so I explained that if he didn't like it he could return it and get a better one or whatever. Slowly, he became really excited and jumped on and road around me in circles. Unfortunately, my bike was at my parents house still so I couldn't ride with him. We took it home and went to a nice restaurant for a Christmas date. The food was not worth the price, but it was a perfect night anyway. He later told me that was the best gift he ever got because it was perfect and thoughtful without him even having to ask for it. He immediately started making plans and looking up bike trails in the area. He wants to take a 30 mile trail ride! I don't know if I can handle all that. It should be fun, though, to start this hobby together. What a perfect night!
Monday, December 14, 2009
Breakdown, and Build Back Up
Saturday I had to go home for my grandma's birthday. My oldest brother and parents and I went to Ruth's Chris and ate a delicious dinner. The whole time, my grandmother was complaining about the enormous amounts of food we were ordering. That's what my family does: judges each other for eating too much and being piggly wigglies, and then secretely stuffs down all the delicious food in enormous quantities when no one is looking. It's not really a secret, though, because people notice when half the leftovers are missing the next morning; plus, we are all fat. Anywho, we dropped grandma off at the assisted living facility after dinner and went home to watch a movie. We didn't really do much, and the next morning I left pretty early. For some reason, it just seemed like a really nice time to me though. So Sunday morning when I ran off with barely a goodbye, I started feeling really guilty about it. I had to leave early because Andrew's work had a Christmas party that afternoon, and he kept telling me not to be late. Once I got on the road, he informed me that the party was at 2:00, not 1:00 like we thought. I was really upset because I had run off in such a hurry and I felt like he had sort of tricked me into getting back early because he didn't trust me to be there on time. He later explained that he really thought the party was at 1:00, but by then I had already gotten myself worked up.
When I was driving back that morning, I was listening to DMB's "Dreaming Tree" and started balling. I kept thinking about how much my family has done for me. They have always given me everything I could ever want or need. They sent me to good schools, bought me great presents, raised me with morals and values, and loved me unconditionally. Even when I was at my worst, when no one could figure out what was wrong with me and I just wanted to die everyday, they stuck with me. They dragged me out of the darkness by making me go to therapy and eventually even going to the inpatient facility. I can't imagine how hard it must have been for my parents seeing me like that. And, on top of that, they would drive 2 hours down to the facility to visit me at least once a week while I was there (and I was there for almost 4 months!). I am extremely lucky to have the support of my family, and was blessed by the fact they could afford the best treatment for me because my dad worked hard and they managed their money well. Most people in my shoes would not have the support I did, I'm sure. My parents never abused me. They weren't alcoholics or druggies. They did everything they knew to do. I sometimes regret the fact that they didn't realize how bad the problem was until it was too late, but now we all know. It won't ever have to get that bad again.
By the time I got back and Andrew came over, I was a mess. He walked in and I said I didn't want to go to his party and just started crying again. I don't know where this came from. He just held me for a little while and tried to figure out what was wrong. It was weird, there was no reason for it really, but it didn't take much for me to relax back to normal. Just having him hold me and love me and care meant so much. Then, he did what he knew would make me feel better. There's something about knowing someone loves every part of you. It can solve all your problems at once. Later, he told me about some difficulties he had in the past to explain that I'm not alone. It meant the world to me.
I ended up going to the party. I knew I was going to be nervous and shy and quiet, and my face always turns so fucking red when I talk to people I don't know. I hate that. My therapist said it's because I am assuming other people are thinking bad things about me, but it happens so fast I don't even realize these are just my thoughts. In just fractions of a second, those thoughts fire and I feel my face burn. Now I just have to learn how to stop it. Well, anyway, all that happened at the party: I was shy and quiet and my face turned red. Luckily, I had plenty to drink and followed Andrew around like a puppy. It actually ended up being really fun. I took part in the White Elephant gift exchange, and got some Jimmy Johns gift cards, which is great because we love J.J.'s and we have no money! Andrew's boss looks just like the blonde version of my therapist - and acts like her and sounds like her too. Of course, I love my therapist because she saved my life and is basically my idol. She has her good job and cute little family. She shops at Banana Republic (I used to work there because I loved it so much). She just has a really good grasp of life and what's important. Plus, she's self-confident and fun. That's what I want in life. I feel like I am heading that way. I found a future that really interests me, something I could do forever. I am usually confident and happy. I have some qualms about myself, but everyone does I think. I can't wait to keep my life moving.
When I was driving back that morning, I was listening to DMB's "Dreaming Tree" and started balling. I kept thinking about how much my family has done for me. They have always given me everything I could ever want or need. They sent me to good schools, bought me great presents, raised me with morals and values, and loved me unconditionally. Even when I was at my worst, when no one could figure out what was wrong with me and I just wanted to die everyday, they stuck with me. They dragged me out of the darkness by making me go to therapy and eventually even going to the inpatient facility. I can't imagine how hard it must have been for my parents seeing me like that. And, on top of that, they would drive 2 hours down to the facility to visit me at least once a week while I was there (and I was there for almost 4 months!). I am extremely lucky to have the support of my family, and was blessed by the fact they could afford the best treatment for me because my dad worked hard and they managed their money well. Most people in my shoes would not have the support I did, I'm sure. My parents never abused me. They weren't alcoholics or druggies. They did everything they knew to do. I sometimes regret the fact that they didn't realize how bad the problem was until it was too late, but now we all know. It won't ever have to get that bad again.
By the time I got back and Andrew came over, I was a mess. He walked in and I said I didn't want to go to his party and just started crying again. I don't know where this came from. He just held me for a little while and tried to figure out what was wrong. It was weird, there was no reason for it really, but it didn't take much for me to relax back to normal. Just having him hold me and love me and care meant so much. Then, he did what he knew would make me feel better. There's something about knowing someone loves every part of you. It can solve all your problems at once. Later, he told me about some difficulties he had in the past to explain that I'm not alone. It meant the world to me.
I ended up going to the party. I knew I was going to be nervous and shy and quiet, and my face always turns so fucking red when I talk to people I don't know. I hate that. My therapist said it's because I am assuming other people are thinking bad things about me, but it happens so fast I don't even realize these are just my thoughts. In just fractions of a second, those thoughts fire and I feel my face burn. Now I just have to learn how to stop it. Well, anyway, all that happened at the party: I was shy and quiet and my face turned red. Luckily, I had plenty to drink and followed Andrew around like a puppy. It actually ended up being really fun. I took part in the White Elephant gift exchange, and got some Jimmy Johns gift cards, which is great because we love J.J.'s and we have no money! Andrew's boss looks just like the blonde version of my therapist - and acts like her and sounds like her too. Of course, I love my therapist because she saved my life and is basically my idol. She has her good job and cute little family. She shops at Banana Republic (I used to work there because I loved it so much). She just has a really good grasp of life and what's important. Plus, she's self-confident and fun. That's what I want in life. I feel like I am heading that way. I found a future that really interests me, something I could do forever. I am usually confident and happy. I have some qualms about myself, but everyone does I think. I can't wait to keep my life moving.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
This is me.
Just finished up exams. School is out for christmas break, and I'm hoping for straight A's.
Andrew and I had a relationship changing event last week. He was getting ready to go to work and went through my drawers looking for his toothbrush. What he found was a little bit different: a razor blade. I used to buy them in packs of ten from CVS, and I had some left over that I never got rid of. I stashed them all over my room back when I was cutting. When you use them to cut as often as I did, they dull out fairly quickly so I would throw them away as they got dull. I forgot all about the one he found, but I had two others stashed away that I couldn't bring myself to get rid of. I hadn't used them in like seven months or so, and they were pretty dull already. It just made me feel safe to know that if I wanted them I could use them. Ugh, it was so awkward. He was standing there brushing his teeth while I was still in bed. He said he found "something" and I immediately knew what it was. I felt my heart skip a beat, and then he held it up. God.
When I was in the clinic, I came home for a weekend pass once. As soon as I got home, I went right up to my room to find my stash of razors. I had hidden them all in the pocket of my bathrobe, thinking no one would ever look there. But there was nothing there. I panicked, looking everywhere for them. Somehow I gathered the courage to ask my mom if she had found them, and she was horrified. Apparently, she had washed that bathrobe so that when I came home I would have it all nice and clean. While it was in the dryer, the razors came out of the pocket and she found them while she was taking out the load. When she was telling me this, she said I could've ruined her clothes. I knew that wasn't really why she was upset. She was upset because it freaked her out to actually see the razor blades. I think seeing them just makes the whole thing so real that it's impossible to deny. On top of that, I had been lying to them, telling them I had stopped for... well... for years. I was like a fucking druggie. I would've lied, cheated, and stolen for anything to self-injure. Even in the clinic, I couldn't get ahold of straight-edge blades so I used whatever I could. I used safety pins and staples and coke cans I had crushed and torn and even a piece of broken plastic that happened to have a sharp edge. I had to dig into my skin just to get a little blood, but I had to do it. And after I convinced them for at least a month that I wasn't doing it, I got razor priveleges (to shave my legs). I asked for a disposable razor, pulled it apart, and cut on every surface that was covered by clothes. Unfortunately, (actually, it was pretty fortunate), they were doing random body searches for the "cutters", and they made you strip to your underwear and examined you for fresh or somewhat new wounds. It didn't take long before I was caught.
It's weird that I still get urges sometimes. I mean, like I said, I haven't done it in months. Last time I quit, I made it nine months without any cuts. I did, however, OBSESS about calorie counting. My therapist thought that I just replaced the behavior. Anxious people have to do something to lower their anxiety (even people in the healthy-anxious range). It can be healthy and proactive, or it can be destructive. I was obese, so counting calories was a great way to channel my anxiety and keep from cutting for a long time (not to mention lose some weight). Of course, I got carried away with it and would limit myself to under 300 calories a day for days at a time. I never kept it up long enough to have an eating disorder, but it was definitely beyond the point of healthy anxiety channeling. I quit counting calories in December last year, and started cutting again. It was very sparse though - like once a month or so. I was spending more time doing healthy things like hanging out with friends and taking care of my dog. Things have gotten even better since then, so I haven't even wanted to. I just couldn't get rid of the razors. It doesn't really matter. If I really really really wanted to do it, I could just buy more. I usually wanted to do it at night, though, so if I didn't have them available I wouldn't be able to go buy them right away. Then, by the time I could go get them, the feeling usually passed and I was fine again. I guess that's why I wanted to keep some handy, but it's much better not to have them. This way, if I do get the urge to do it again, hopefully by the time I get a chance to go get the blades and everything, it will have passed and I won't need to.
By the way, I took the liberty of getting rid of all my blades when he found that one.
It really is such a weird disease. I guess that's why I was never tempted to do drugs. I was already addicted to something that was essentially just as harmful. Even writing about it now gives me the urge to do it, even though I know how not to now. Andrew was extremely cool about it. He just reminded me that if I did want to cut, I have plenty of people to talk to instead of doing it - him, my parents, my therapist. I know that. I mean, I've always had people I could talk to about it. The problem is that it's a secretive thing: you don't want to tell anyone about it because it's a secret and it's all yours. It's almost comforting that it's something you have just for you and no one else knows or tells you when or how to do it. It's crazy looking back on it, seeing how I used to be so fixed on it. I don't want to go down that road anymore. It's such a disturbing thing, and I want the life I have now, not the life I had then. It doesn't have to be that bad. I like not having to wear long sleeves all the time, or constantly worry about having a jacket to go over anything short sleeved. I like being able to lie there naked with my boyfriend. I like not having to be ashamed. I have the scars; I don't want more. It's like wearing a big sign saying "I used to be fucked up". People never really know exactly what happened or why, and they never know if you're really over it. I hate having my past written on my arm, but I'm not ashamed anymore. I'm not hiding. This is me.
Andrew and I had a relationship changing event last week. He was getting ready to go to work and went through my drawers looking for his toothbrush. What he found was a little bit different: a razor blade. I used to buy them in packs of ten from CVS, and I had some left over that I never got rid of. I stashed them all over my room back when I was cutting. When you use them to cut as often as I did, they dull out fairly quickly so I would throw them away as they got dull. I forgot all about the one he found, but I had two others stashed away that I couldn't bring myself to get rid of. I hadn't used them in like seven months or so, and they were pretty dull already. It just made me feel safe to know that if I wanted them I could use them. Ugh, it was so awkward. He was standing there brushing his teeth while I was still in bed. He said he found "something" and I immediately knew what it was. I felt my heart skip a beat, and then he held it up. God.
When I was in the clinic, I came home for a weekend pass once. As soon as I got home, I went right up to my room to find my stash of razors. I had hidden them all in the pocket of my bathrobe, thinking no one would ever look there. But there was nothing there. I panicked, looking everywhere for them. Somehow I gathered the courage to ask my mom if she had found them, and she was horrified. Apparently, she had washed that bathrobe so that when I came home I would have it all nice and clean. While it was in the dryer, the razors came out of the pocket and she found them while she was taking out the load. When she was telling me this, she said I could've ruined her clothes. I knew that wasn't really why she was upset. She was upset because it freaked her out to actually see the razor blades. I think seeing them just makes the whole thing so real that it's impossible to deny. On top of that, I had been lying to them, telling them I had stopped for... well... for years. I was like a fucking druggie. I would've lied, cheated, and stolen for anything to self-injure. Even in the clinic, I couldn't get ahold of straight-edge blades so I used whatever I could. I used safety pins and staples and coke cans I had crushed and torn and even a piece of broken plastic that happened to have a sharp edge. I had to dig into my skin just to get a little blood, but I had to do it. And after I convinced them for at least a month that I wasn't doing it, I got razor priveleges (to shave my legs). I asked for a disposable razor, pulled it apart, and cut on every surface that was covered by clothes. Unfortunately, (actually, it was pretty fortunate), they were doing random body searches for the "cutters", and they made you strip to your underwear and examined you for fresh or somewhat new wounds. It didn't take long before I was caught.
It's weird that I still get urges sometimes. I mean, like I said, I haven't done it in months. Last time I quit, I made it nine months without any cuts. I did, however, OBSESS about calorie counting. My therapist thought that I just replaced the behavior. Anxious people have to do something to lower their anxiety (even people in the healthy-anxious range). It can be healthy and proactive, or it can be destructive. I was obese, so counting calories was a great way to channel my anxiety and keep from cutting for a long time (not to mention lose some weight). Of course, I got carried away with it and would limit myself to under 300 calories a day for days at a time. I never kept it up long enough to have an eating disorder, but it was definitely beyond the point of healthy anxiety channeling. I quit counting calories in December last year, and started cutting again. It was very sparse though - like once a month or so. I was spending more time doing healthy things like hanging out with friends and taking care of my dog. Things have gotten even better since then, so I haven't even wanted to. I just couldn't get rid of the razors. It doesn't really matter. If I really really really wanted to do it, I could just buy more. I usually wanted to do it at night, though, so if I didn't have them available I wouldn't be able to go buy them right away. Then, by the time I could go get them, the feeling usually passed and I was fine again. I guess that's why I wanted to keep some handy, but it's much better not to have them. This way, if I do get the urge to do it again, hopefully by the time I get a chance to go get the blades and everything, it will have passed and I won't need to.
By the way, I took the liberty of getting rid of all my blades when he found that one.
It really is such a weird disease. I guess that's why I was never tempted to do drugs. I was already addicted to something that was essentially just as harmful. Even writing about it now gives me the urge to do it, even though I know how not to now. Andrew was extremely cool about it. He just reminded me that if I did want to cut, I have plenty of people to talk to instead of doing it - him, my parents, my therapist. I know that. I mean, I've always had people I could talk to about it. The problem is that it's a secretive thing: you don't want to tell anyone about it because it's a secret and it's all yours. It's almost comforting that it's something you have just for you and no one else knows or tells you when or how to do it. It's crazy looking back on it, seeing how I used to be so fixed on it. I don't want to go down that road anymore. It's such a disturbing thing, and I want the life I have now, not the life I had then. It doesn't have to be that bad. I like not having to wear long sleeves all the time, or constantly worry about having a jacket to go over anything short sleeved. I like being able to lie there naked with my boyfriend. I like not having to be ashamed. I have the scars; I don't want more. It's like wearing a big sign saying "I used to be fucked up". People never really know exactly what happened or why, and they never know if you're really over it. I hate having my past written on my arm, but I'm not ashamed anymore. I'm not hiding. This is me.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Good Days Ahead!
So just for the record, I did fine Tuesday. I was totally bummed and hating the world. I got to Andrew's and he was playing xbox, so I almost crawled into a hole and sulked. A few minutes after I came in though, he successfully cheered me up looking at funny pictures online. Oh, and the fact that I got into a DIS (research group) for next semester really helped. I had an interview for this research group Monday morning and I thought it didn't go very well. Tuesday evening I got the email saying I was great for the position, which is AMAZING. I would love love love to work under this same professor in grad school. He studies depression, eating disorders, and suicide (all of which are of major interest to me... not sure why....?) Well, the point is, even when I started getting all those overwhelming "fuck the world" feelings, all it took was someone to hold my hand and say he loved me. I easily remembered that not talking to anyone in a class does not mean I have no one to talk to EVER. It does not mean that I am alone. It just means I haven't made an effort to get to know anyone in that group. Before I go off the deep end in depressing emotions, I need to step back and look at reality.
Really, the rest of the week revolved around studying for a test in that dreaded class. Remember how I was afraid I was doing awful because I wasn't going to that class anymore? Well I studied for the test and read the book and got a 93%. Just more wasted anxiety!
OHHH, Friday and Saturday I did my Christmas shopping. I am SOOO excited about my present for Andrew. He probably won't love it because it's not the best of the best, but it was the best I could afford. I've been researching and looking for the perfect thing for like two weeks. I read all these articles on how to pick it and where to find it. I read tons of reviews on brands, and I drove all over town looking for the best one for the most reasonable price. I never put this much effort into presents because I hate the pressure. I feel like you spend all this time looking for the perfect thing, and if the person doesn't like it, they have to keep it just because you tried so hard. I figure it's easier to just pick something easy they'll probably like and tell them to go ahead and return it for something better if they don't like it. I just hate feeling like they are disappointed in what you picked because it's not quite right, and same for when I am the receiver. I hate when I get something that's almost what I wanted but not quite, but I have to keep it because they tried. I know it's like anti-holiday or whatever, but I really wish we could forget about forced presents and just have a second Thanksgiving. To me, Christmas is about the family and the food and the traditions that go with the season, not the presents. I would rather get the money, as tacky and greedy as that sounds. If I found a perfect gift for someone some time during the year, I could give it to them then, not because it's Christmas and you have to find gifts to give. I don't know... just some thoughts. But I am excited that I had such a great idea for Andrew's present. I just hope he doesn't feel awkward about returning it if he doesn't quite like it. I would rather be a little disappointed when he returns it than a lot disappointed when his hatred for it slowly comes out over the next few years. Eh, we'll see how it goes.
Anywaaaaaay, I'm not sure how I got on that tangent. I guess I was just trying to explain that I got myself busy really quickly so that the little upset on Tuesday didn't turn into anything more than just that. I did have a little scare with some body functioning and gorged myself on chocolate in nervousness. It cleared up pretty quickly and then I was just sick and sorry about the chocolate eating.
Andrew and I are at my parent's house tonight. Once again, I'm in this golden content place. It's weird to think that we are actually at my house because I have an appointment with my psychologist. I feel so complete right now. We had a great evening out to eat with my parents and drinks and a movie afterward. I tucked him into bed in the guest room (my parents don't approve of premarital sex or pre-marital bed-sharing... or premarital seeing each other in our p.j.'s....). I've got my puppy by my side, and I just feel so complete. I can't help thinking about marrying this guy. We are such a good balance for each other. I know he is a little scared about my past, and that he wouldn't be able to handle my problems if they happened again - at least not as bad as they were. I understand that fully. I can't say I would be comfortable being with someone who went through what I did. I would worry that the person would fall deep again, and I wouldn't be strong enough to keep them happy and healthy. I also understand because I worry about his past sometimes. He did some stupid immature boy things. This was years ago now, but I sometimes catch myself wondering if he has really changed. We tell each other we are different, and remind each other how much people can change. I guess that's what love is: trust and faith in each other. You don't know what the future will hold, but if you are smart and watch each other with honest feelings (not lust), you might just be able to find someone that will make it through with you. My parents have been married for 34 years, some years happier than others; but, they are still in love. I don't want to settle for anything less in my life, and I can only hope that I will be blessed with that true, deep, enduring love.
Really, the rest of the week revolved around studying for a test in that dreaded class. Remember how I was afraid I was doing awful because I wasn't going to that class anymore? Well I studied for the test and read the book and got a 93%. Just more wasted anxiety!
OHHH, Friday and Saturday I did my Christmas shopping. I am SOOO excited about my present for Andrew. He probably won't love it because it's not the best of the best, but it was the best I could afford. I've been researching and looking for the perfect thing for like two weeks. I read all these articles on how to pick it and where to find it. I read tons of reviews on brands, and I drove all over town looking for the best one for the most reasonable price. I never put this much effort into presents because I hate the pressure. I feel like you spend all this time looking for the perfect thing, and if the person doesn't like it, they have to keep it just because you tried so hard. I figure it's easier to just pick something easy they'll probably like and tell them to go ahead and return it for something better if they don't like it. I just hate feeling like they are disappointed in what you picked because it's not quite right, and same for when I am the receiver. I hate when I get something that's almost what I wanted but not quite, but I have to keep it because they tried. I know it's like anti-holiday or whatever, but I really wish we could forget about forced presents and just have a second Thanksgiving. To me, Christmas is about the family and the food and the traditions that go with the season, not the presents. I would rather get the money, as tacky and greedy as that sounds. If I found a perfect gift for someone some time during the year, I could give it to them then, not because it's Christmas and you have to find gifts to give. I don't know... just some thoughts. But I am excited that I had such a great idea for Andrew's present. I just hope he doesn't feel awkward about returning it if he doesn't quite like it. I would rather be a little disappointed when he returns it than a lot disappointed when his hatred for it slowly comes out over the next few years. Eh, we'll see how it goes.
Anywaaaaaay, I'm not sure how I got on that tangent. I guess I was just trying to explain that I got myself busy really quickly so that the little upset on Tuesday didn't turn into anything more than just that. I did have a little scare with some body functioning and gorged myself on chocolate in nervousness. It cleared up pretty quickly and then I was just sick and sorry about the chocolate eating.
Andrew and I are at my parent's house tonight. Once again, I'm in this golden content place. It's weird to think that we are actually at my house because I have an appointment with my psychologist. I feel so complete right now. We had a great evening out to eat with my parents and drinks and a movie afterward. I tucked him into bed in the guest room (my parents don't approve of premarital sex or pre-marital bed-sharing... or premarital seeing each other in our p.j.'s....). I've got my puppy by my side, and I just feel so complete. I can't help thinking about marrying this guy. We are such a good balance for each other. I know he is a little scared about my past, and that he wouldn't be able to handle my problems if they happened again - at least not as bad as they were. I understand that fully. I can't say I would be comfortable being with someone who went through what I did. I would worry that the person would fall deep again, and I wouldn't be strong enough to keep them happy and healthy. I also understand because I worry about his past sometimes. He did some stupid immature boy things. This was years ago now, but I sometimes catch myself wondering if he has really changed. We tell each other we are different, and remind each other how much people can change. I guess that's what love is: trust and faith in each other. You don't know what the future will hold, but if you are smart and watch each other with honest feelings (not lust), you might just be able to find someone that will make it through with you. My parents have been married for 34 years, some years happier than others; but, they are still in love. I don't want to settle for anything less in my life, and I can only hope that I will be blessed with that true, deep, enduring love.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Holy Jesus.
I am in such a weird place right now. I always am when I have to come to this class. It reminds me of the shit times when I was sick. I come to this class where I don't know anyone. Everyone talks and laughs while I sit in the corner of the back row by myself. I don't like the teacher because he embarassed me by saying I was sleeping during class (which I wasn't) and everyone laughed. On top of that, I stopped coming to this class because it is boring and makes me anxious and depressed and lonely. Now, when I actually do come, I am overcome with nervousness and stress because I have no idea what is going on and I am afraid I am going to fail. I'm having flashbacks to my sick times at college up north. I started skipping classes when I had mono. Skipping was easier than going and realizing that I was too lost to get help and that I had no friends to help me anyways. Skipping was easier than going to class by myself and trying not to cry. Skipping was easier than facing real life. So that's what I did until I was failing. I really only missed a few classes, but a few classes of Cell and Molecular Biology or Organic Chemistry or Calculus 2 is all it takes to start failing. And that's how I got into that suicide pattern.
That's not entirely accurate. My memory of the "sick" years is all muddled. I guess when your brain is so devoted to just trying to function, it doesn't have much energy left to create and keep memories. It's kind of ironic that the class I'm in right now that's giving me so many problems is actually on memory.
Jesus. I guess the semester I had mono, I got passing withdraws because of the mono. Then, it was the next semester that I overdosed. I couldn't figure out how I would get through without failing. Unfortunately, my only solution was death. I couldn't see how I would make it through the end of the semester. I couldn't face the thought of failing. On top of that, I couldn't face the fact that my old roommate (who was abroad) would be back in January. My new roommate (and best friend ever) had taken her place. Everyone told me the old one was bad for me and I should stop talking to her, so I did. Except that I didn't tell her why. She emailed me and called me from fucking Spain, and I just ignored it. I can't imagine how I would feel if my best friend just started ignoring me from half way around the world. There wasn't even anything she could do about it because she was so far away. She even still sent me a present from abroad. She was bad for me, though. She was incredibly strong and controlling, and, especially when I was sick, I became her little pet. I asked her for permission to hang out with others, I couldn't eat without her or go out without her or even be in any activities without her. She would sulk and tell me how terrible everyone else was if I tried to do anything without her. I don't know if it was just because I was so weak or if she would be that way with anyone. I don't know if I would have gotten so sick if I hadn't been randomly selected as her roommate. I guess there's always what ifs though. There were about a thousand things that contributed to it. I'm just glad I made it through.
I feel like my insides are oozing out. Maybe I'll feel better when I'm back in my safety zone with Andrew. Or, maybe I'll be writing in an hour about how ookie I still feel. I guess we'll wait and see.
That's not entirely accurate. My memory of the "sick" years is all muddled. I guess when your brain is so devoted to just trying to function, it doesn't have much energy left to create and keep memories. It's kind of ironic that the class I'm in right now that's giving me so many problems is actually on memory.
Jesus. I guess the semester I had mono, I got passing withdraws because of the mono. Then, it was the next semester that I overdosed. I couldn't figure out how I would get through without failing. Unfortunately, my only solution was death. I couldn't see how I would make it through the end of the semester. I couldn't face the thought of failing. On top of that, I couldn't face the fact that my old roommate (who was abroad) would be back in January. My new roommate (and best friend ever) had taken her place. Everyone told me the old one was bad for me and I should stop talking to her, so I did. Except that I didn't tell her why. She emailed me and called me from fucking Spain, and I just ignored it. I can't imagine how I would feel if my best friend just started ignoring me from half way around the world. There wasn't even anything she could do about it because she was so far away. She even still sent me a present from abroad. She was bad for me, though. She was incredibly strong and controlling, and, especially when I was sick, I became her little pet. I asked her for permission to hang out with others, I couldn't eat without her or go out without her or even be in any activities without her. She would sulk and tell me how terrible everyone else was if I tried to do anything without her. I don't know if it was just because I was so weak or if she would be that way with anyone. I don't know if I would have gotten so sick if I hadn't been randomly selected as her roommate. I guess there's always what ifs though. There were about a thousand things that contributed to it. I'm just glad I made it through.
I feel like my insides are oozing out. Maybe I'll feel better when I'm back in my safety zone with Andrew. Or, maybe I'll be writing in an hour about how ookie I still feel. I guess we'll wait and see.
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