Rolling down the HIll

They say that anorexics are often being stifled- being controlled by someone else to such a point that they are literally trying to make themselves smaller so that they can fit in the world. This has never made sense to me- no one is stifling me so much I as stifle myself. Shrinking away from myself by shrinking into myself just doesn’t make sense. I do however huddle. I make myself into a little ball- when im most depressed or stressed I am most likely to be found not hiding under the covers in my bed but on the floor. Preferable in a corner, preferably with a mirror. Marya Hornbacher wrote that sometimes when she feels unconstrained she has her husband sit on her -an idea which seemed ridiculous to me upon first reading it. I mean she is a woman who weighed less than 60 pounds for a chunk of her adult life- having a grown man sit on her does not seem smart, or safe. But thinking about it it makes total sense. That’s what I do with corners. I create a tiny space and I fit myself in it and then I feel safe- confined.
This is my space-
this is my world-
it ends right here with this wall and here with another.
Theres not enough space for bad things to get in.
this is me and my space. Its comforting. Its where I go to throw my hands up. I give up- I’m done- I can’t fight it anymore. That’s when I find a corner
and I huddle
and I cry.
And in lui of actually huddling: when life is at a point where I can’t or wont stop- don’t have the option to throw up my hands and find a corner- I see myself huddling. I imagine things a lot- mentally right things in a physically wrong world. At concerts I have cartoonish arms ala mr tickles that grow out and pick people up that are in my way - depositing them along the side and out of my line of view so I can happily watch the band. Often times my gangly arms will reach out and cover the mouth of some loud talker at a bar or resturuant. Embarrisingly, for a little while when I worked at a retail clothing store I would lean back against the kaki wall and imaging snatching screaming babies out of their mothers arms or their safe little strollers and and slamming their heads into walls until in a bloody mess they shut up. I don’t know if a maternal instinct has set in since then or I’ve just gotten nicer as I age but I don’t do that anymore. My mr tickles arms may stretch their little bonnets down over their little screaming faces but that’s about the extent of my imagined harm to babies these days. With the exception of the bloody babies these thoughts often make me giggle with glee- if only for a moment. Today I went for a hike in hopes that sunshine and nature and the feel of wind on my skin would shake me out the depressive funk I’ve been in for days. That maybe doing something would give me the energy to do anything actually remotely productive today. (which it didn’t unless you count chopping up a single fig and mixing it with a teaspoon of peanut butter, cinnamin and way too much splenda in a tiny little bowl and then eating it by the spoonful- productive.) Hiking the downhill portion of a fairly steep hill I mentally decided to give up. I saw myself just stopping and huddling into my familiar little ball. I saw my huddled self rolling uncontrollably down the zig zagged hill. Even now, just as it did earlier the thought of makes me giggle with glee. a moments giddiness in a day of ambivilance is helpful little ray of sunshine. I try to laugh at the craziness as much as I can. Cause, fuck ,what else can you do?

Argue with my body

When its hard I argue with my body- why wont you just do what I ask? And my body in turn agrues violently back- why are you trying to steal my substance? I push harder rougher my stomach clenches tighter ----my body trying to resist an act that it knows will kill it if performed well and often enough. I once ate an entire box of donuts. I sat down on my grey bedroom rug and shoved the donuts one by one into my mouth. This is done, obviously, without tasting or enjoying them- sometimes pushing the huge chunks so far back into your mouth that the taste buds don’t even have their chance at them. These are the times that it comes up easy- the times when your body helps the process along. Your stomache no more wants to keep a dozen donuts than it wants to give up the measly everyday ‘meals’ I so often ask it to. You learn over the years the things that come up easy and the things that don’t. the tricks and whatnot. I often think that what im doing is normal- that any sane woman trying to keep her weight in check would throw up if they realized it was a valid option. Who doesn’t do countless things in their day that make them scream internally ‘redo! I need a redo! Go back 10 mins and lets do that one over’ And what rational person wouldn’t grab the option to take those things back? This is my redo- this is my time out- go back- start things over again. Its both an apology to myself (sorry I lost control for a min there just give me a sec and ill fix it) and a punishment for doing it wrong in the first place. There are two basic ways I throw up and both are very different in almost every way except the general outcome. Over the years I have learned how to use my stomach? muscles to push up? Out? From the inside. Its clean. Its quick. Its quiet. It doesn’t make your eyes red and your face stained with tears and snot. Because of this It has the added advantage of not making you feel totally crazy and out of control. This method has in the past decade become as natural as peeing for me. This is why I disconnect it from being a disease. You don’t think theses anything wrong with peeing right- something went into your body that it doesn’t need so it gets rid of it. I’m certain my body doesn’t need that extra few hundred calories. This is the appology its easy and quick and painless. Sometimes it doesn’t work that way though- sometimes for whatever reason my body doesn’t want to give up that roll or apple or candy. Sometimes it just resists. That’s when it gets messy. And painful. And dangerous. I may joke about my eating disorders, I may be flippant about it in passing but its horrible and humiliating and painful on that bathroom floor. No rational person would take fingers covered in half digested food and stick them into their mouth. No rational person would wipe their nose with the back of their hand and then stick it- snot covered- into their mouth (I have tried to stop this since recently realizing that the fact that I have had a cold for nearing 6 months may be partially due to this practice). No rational person would realize they are constricting their airway and stop for a second move over a bit and continue to do whatever activity it was that left them gasping for air in the first place. No. no rational person is present when I wage these wars against myself. Things that used to stop me cold I now shake off quickly or barely even notice in the first place. I don’t throw up until I bleed (often) or force myself into dry heaves as I have heard some girls do. But I continue through pain that would have stopped me cold years ago. Choking is only a momentary setback. Dizziness only a reason to hold on. I have gotten used to seeing the girl in mirror before I wash up- red eyed, tearstreaked, snot and food plastered to her face. I wash her away and think- patetic. All the while contemplating what else I can eat next. You see- the second way only comes after a snap- a breaking point into a spell that is hard to get out of. Sometimes I throw up 6, 8, a dozen times a day the first way. I throw up this way at work, friends houses, in public bathrooms, while on the phone with people. Some days I do it close to every time I go into a bathroom. As natural as peeing. But the second way, the second way being partially a punshment is unnatural and angry and harsh. It’s a fuck you to my body- you wont be- wont do what I want? We’ll see about that.

Screaming

They tell me I'll bleed to death one day. Accidentally push too hard- cut too deep, slice anartery. They tell me I'll scar. I scar out- not like some people with soft smooth scars. I scar in puffy outward scars. They tell me I'll have them my whole life. They don't understand that I want the scars. I love the scars. The scars represent something- they are in essence battle scars. Remnants of a deep war I waged with  myself for years. I like the scars. I loved the blood. The red flowing blood- so dark- so loud it could not be ignored. They didn't understand that for a girl living in silence, the blood, the scars were a scream. Not a measly, tiny, 'cry for help'- a term thrown around near daily about me and the people around me back then. No- a loud, piercing, deafening, scream.

When the energy boiled up inside me so much that I felt like I would burst, the cuts opened a path for it to seep out. The way one pierces a potato so the skin doesn't rip open in the oven. The internal heat of the potato will become so high, the steam so dense, that it will rip the skin apart if you don't give it a place to escape. The slices let the energy escape in thick red puddles that I would let run down my arm. I always waited to wash away the blood. I liked to see it- an actual physical manifestation of a pain that I couldn't, was ashamed to, verbalize. A scream in a world of created silence. 

I don't have many scars and they're not extremely noticable. I've never not gotten a job (like they told me would happen) because a potential boss looked at my arm and was clued into how fucked up I really am. Not that I know of at least. I have friends who have known me for months, years, when one day upon passing them the chips or holding open a door the notice the scars and look at me in shock and confusion "what happened to your arm?!" I don't have an answer ready for those times. Not really. Not a good one at least. I sheepishly, embarassedly, tell them I was a self mutilator when I was younger. I'm not embarassed about the scars, not embarassed about how I got them. I'm embarrassed at the attention- at the fact that they will ask if I am ok now. That I will have to lie and say yes or say not so much and have them worry about me. God- worry about me. I hate concern- I hate the attention of concern. If I want someone's help- need someone's help it is incredubly hard for me to ask. I cannot handle the attention. The furrowed brows- the expectations. Concern always feels like expectedness to me. Like now I must produce something for you. What exactly am i supposed to procure? A happy girl- with concern you are supposed to be weak enough to allow those around you to be compassionate. Weak enough to let them take care of you. Which is something I can't do- because it comes with strings- the expectation. Again the expectations. So so many expectations. The expectation that I will let you make me feel better. Let you fix it. If I come to you with a problem I am supposed to let you solve it. Thats the deal. I let you feel helpful- you walk away proud- needed. But if you can't fix my problems- if I don't let you fix my problems- if I can't procure a happy girl...then I have failed you. Then I have made you feel bad and weak and useless. How can I inflict that upon the people I care about? So I scream in silence. And I smile in your company. Through the thick layer of glass that is between us- through the fog and the spinning of the room around you. I stand  on a street corner and imagine myself laying in a fetal position on the sidewalk. But all the while I hold a conversation with you. I see myself there. I nod. I laugh. I tell a witty story if I've got one. All the while I'm laying on the sidewalk, I'm curled up in a ball hugging my knees, I'm under the table at restaurant hiding myself. Screaming silently. 

I'm not manic

I'm not manic- at least not manic in the way that people who are manic get a lot done. Quickly. I don't know much about mania but I know that I am not that. I don’t get a lot done. Quickly. Or ever really. Perhaps I am manic in some sort of way. I know I am manic in some sort of way. In the way that sometimes I want to rip my eyeballs out from the boredom. The angry gripping energy that boils up inside that makes me want to do something, do anything, do everything. The energy is always internal though- it doesn’t seep out into the actuality of accomplishing anything. It manifests itself in days of unstoppable fidgeting, fighting, planning the perfect thing to do , the perfect place to go, the perfect plan to get it out. But nothing's ever perfect enough so I don’t do anything. I normally just end up so disparate at the lack of choices that I give up on planning, on running, on fighting it at all and just crumple into myself. I cannot count the amount of times I got in my car as a teenager planning to go on some elaborate trip only to end up in a parking lot 10 or 20 or 5 miles from my house crying and pleading for it to stop. Calling my mom and telling her I was going somewhere for a couple weeks. No I don’t know where. I don’t know how long. I have no idea what answers I gave to certainly asked questions like where I would sleep or how I would pay for things. I'm sure I had some sort of plan. A brilliant plan I'm sure that included something about experiencing life and sie la vie and all that shit. And then I'm driving and I realize I'm just running and I realize it isn’t going to work- I cant outrun this. And then I'm pulling over because I cant see through the tears enough to drive and I learned my lesson about trying to drive while crying month ago with that tree. And I'm throwing a glass bottle on the ground outside the car in some parking lot somewhere in jersey and cutting my ankle with the glass. I'm letting the blood and the pain and the endorphins carry the energy away. at least a little. I’m on a train platform staring at a route map trying to decide if the pain will more likely go away in south amboy or Trenton. Or maybe I could go north somewhere. Maybe the energy -the pure energy of the pain will dissipate somewhere in ny. I’m on one side of the train tracks at a station I must have walked the 3 miles to and then I'm on the other because I decided west is probably better. and then I'm crying and somehow my dad is there and he drives me home promising he will drive me to upstate new york to see one of my best friends if I just come home. I never ran away from them I was running away from me. I cannot imagine how painful it must be for a parent to know that. And to know that that is not possible- to wonder and worry about the dangers about how far your child might possibly run. To try and save someone from themselves. Perhaps there is some phycological disease that explains everything I do perfectly. Perhaps. But I don’t know it. Perhaps if I started to go to drs again they would tell me something new- give me some new diagnosis some newly discovered or widely known phycosis with a name that explained it all. Oh I have…..now I understand! Perhaps then I would get it, everything, my life and my actions and why things spin around me so much. Perhaps It would make the spinning stop. I doubt it. I also don’t have insurance so I ignore the possibility. Some days I am good to myself. Some days I sooth myself with imaginary hands- pet my head ‘you’re doing the best you can’ rub the small of my back ‘you can only give what you have to give’ pat my shoulder with a reassuring ‘”these are the cards your were dealt”. Other days it’s bare knuckled punishing blows . ‘you just aren’t trying hard enough’ a right hook to cheekbone ‘your life isn’t harder than anyone elses’ a punch to the head ‘you don’t deserve to feel bad for yourself’ a hard jab in the stomach. I know I am falling because of the anxiety and nuatia and way my lungs gets heavy and leaden when a character in a movie is about to do something obviously leading to embarrassment. The way I have to turn away and just wish, wish their impending humility would pass already just go away so I can return to my romantic comedy so that both of our lives can be ok again. I know I am falling because of the bitchyness because of impatience that is well more severe than my normal high strungedness. I know I am falling because I hardly ever want my boyfriend to touch me. Because sexuality all but turns itself off. Because I fully understand that it is not him, not him. Because I wouldn’t want anybody to touch me. And because it doesn’t matter. Not to me. Not for me. It matters because he deserves better but that’s a different story all together. I know I have not fallen fully because I don’t sit in corners, on floors, huddling my knees and crying and rocking for hours. Not a lot. Not lately at least. I don’t know if that is partially or fully because I live with him. Because we both work from home. Because he is here- always here- in a way that I am both greatly thankful and awefully embittered by. I do know that the one time in the past few weeks that I did find myself huddled in a crying ball was also the one time In the past few weeks I actually came home to an empty house. I do know that what should have been a 5 min shower just to get out the door turned into 20 mins of me telling myself I had to stop crying, had to get off bathtub floor, had to pull myself together. Me picking myself up a little bit, crying at the effort, at the fact that it was an effort and shriveling back into my knees. Crouching, crying, letting the cooling shower mix with the tears. I do not know if it happened because he wasn’t there- or was allowed to happen because he wasn’t there at least. I do know that I trust him. Fully. With the actuality of who I am. Or least I trust as much as any girl who has truthfully had every single long term relationship, with every single boy she has ever loved, end with them honestly painfully shaking their heads with despair and pity. Crazy. I have been called crazy by just about every boy I have ever dated. Every boy who has known me long enough to get past the appeal and intrigue of what seems like harmless wackiness, cuteness, adorable creativity to the grittyness of these diseases. To the girl huddled in a ball crying with what seems like unstoppable force. I trust him. As much any crazy person can trust any sane person to willfully participate in this world that is our own hell. You see we understand—we would run from it if we could. Most of us do. I spend most of my life running, running in circles around myself, from myself. So how much can you possibly trust someone else to willfully follow you down the rabbit hole? Down the spiral staircase to the depth of a mind that fights and forces and pushes against normalcy.

Intro

I will forever be 16 when I cry. The girl that I was before is so foreign that I don't remember her and the woman that I attempt to be will forever be dominated by the girl I was when it started. Scared and lost and confused with this thing that was taking over her mind. Still on good days I forget the bad, still on bad days I don't know where it came from. How I got there. Here. This is an account of what I deal with now and what I dealt with then. I don't know how to spell- grammar and sentence structure.... this is just it. Its just how I feel. I don't feel in full sentences most of the time. Forgive me if its self indulgent. Forgive me if its over dramatic. Forgive me if its long winded and confusing and you just can't understand what I'm saying. Forgive me if its gross or painful. This is just it. Its just how I feel.