Getting Real Tired of Your Shit, Me...

Fuck me! I began this post on my cellphone and "Rainy Days and Mondays" by The Carpenters comes on XM Radio. How apropos...

www.youtube.com/watch?v=PjFoQxjgbrs‎

 Freaking Monday night depression hit me hard, strangely revolving around an intense desire to restrict back to September of last year... Karen Carpenter smacked me in the face with the hard truth of what that means...it essentially means death... but I tend not to concern myself with that neon pink elephant looming in the room... Not me... Nope...
For those unfamiliar with Karen Carpenter, she died of anorexia, more specifically, of a heart attack due to refeeding syndrome, in 1983, 2 years before I was born... they like to show documentaries about her in ed treatment facilities and on Lifetime...
Back then, for the vast majority of my disorder, and even now, this disease was and is extremely misunderstood and, sadly, often mistreated if not untreated... The consequences are devastating and ED's currently claim more lives than any other mental disorder, yet many suffer in silence and more still can find no way out....
Being anything but silent, I probably represent the latter... But the price of exposure of your disorder, although inevitable after so long, is to either accept or feign responsibility for your behavior...
It's that or let everyone believe that you're on drugs and go invisible for several months every year or two...
It's strange how ashamed and totally unashamed I am at this point... I despise the attention the truth gets me, but it's far easier to tell the truth more often than not... at least the truth keeps people from guessing you have AIDS or a big time addiction to heroin...
But, the result of being honest is vulnerability and transparency... everyone knows what goes on in that restroom and has a little insight into that twisted little brain of mine... People see the deliberate nature of your behavior around food and eventually gain the knowledge to make judgements and even decisions regarding your wellbeing...
This is where I get myself into trouble...
I have a tendency to blindly leap at recovery from time to time with no real desire for what that really means... total surrender of what has come to be my life...

My half assed efforts remind me of old roadrunner cartoons, lots of anvils and walls and splats and explosions, but for some reason I never get to die, just come up with another equally stupid idea that's going to leave a me standing, charred, in a cloud of smoke holding the fuse...

A lot of death has been hovering around my family and I lately. Most so far, grow old, some VERY old, before age or disease takes them... This blows my mind, as I had zero expectation of living to be 28, much less 91...

I've begged for death, even sought it out to the extent that I was even given last rites...

I don't seek it out so much anymore, but I still struggle with living in this particular version of my body... and that in itself confuses me to no end about what exactly it is that I want.... I cannot live this way, can't live that way, I apparently can't even die right... what the fuck!?

I'm actually willing to admit that a lot of this hostility towards my physical self is due to the fact that I'm especially triggered since last weekend. I went to a sort of reunion this past weekend and awkwardly tried to reconnect with some friends from my high school theater troupe, they hadn't seen me in 10 to 12 years... though I would never attend a school reunion, I'm known to make exceptions for smaller groups that I'm more intimate with, but the experience scared me shitless... I was grateful that no one really asked where I'd been or what I've done with my life... I kept it simple: degree in psych, worked in case management, pharmaceutical research, and a psychiatric hospital... even let some of my closer friends know about my "dancing"... 

But yesterday the pictures of the event showed up on Facebook.... thankfully only within the theater group which is closed... and I saw my body through the lenses of their cameras and pondered making an app that lets you cathartically rip digital pictures into pieces to make yourself feel better (technosavvy app designers, msg me)

Some hours and research later... it exists already...thunder stolen...

https://play.google.com/store/apps/details?id=com.km.photo.torn

Great! Just what I need to take self-loathing to the next level... because Fatbooth wasn't bad enough...

I would normally let this post trail off into oblivion while I downloaded and redownloaded both apps respectively and manipulated every picture in my phone into a human thumb to tear apart, but I just don't have the stomach for it tonight... Not only am I thoroughly disgusted by my self right now and have no desire to make it worse, but I feel so guilty that I'm actually having these thoughts as someone I love spends his last night on earth... I think its high time I pulled my head out of my ass and prepare it for the kicking that's coming over the next week when it isn't the center of my attention for once...

 Love and Neurosis,

Little One

Happiness and Other Drugs

It's been a minute hasn't it?
It's strange to come back after a long dry spell to find that your website has gone on without you...
I guess writing blogs is not so different from writing on a bathroom stall...leave your mark until your life's next paint job...
  I wonder how many abandoned blogs are floating around out there, their authors grasping for that one contribution they want to share with the world, only to lose their password, become mired in obligations, or stricken dumb by doubt and insecurity...

I have decided to make the writing my career for the time being, while I work to regain my footing after a long period of relapse with my eating disorder... found an agency to produce content for at $7.50  per 500 word article I can shit out and have been doing ok with that... Although I find it strange that when I want to get some "real writing" done to sort out my own thoughts and feelings, I sit here blankly staring at the blinking cursor for months before beginning to form words. Maybe it's the fact that the other one is incentivized. I make about 3 cents a month with my web traffic on this site only to communicate to my readers that I am stuck in the same rut that has claimed the past 18 years of my life... My articles about back pain and and elementary math education probably get more hits for my clients...whoever they are...

Since my last post, I turned 28, and I found out my Social Security backpay for all of 2012 is FINALLY en route... I'm currently working on not spending this check in my head before it gets here in about 3 weeks... But after over 2 years spent broke, miserable, struggling, sick, and not working (unless you count writing and exotic dancing) it's very hard not to want to take that fat check with your name on it and say, "I fucking deserve to be happy for once!"

This would usually an improvement on my typical thought process, but  it's been my experience that me when I'm excited or comfortable is often more dangerous than me when I'm miserable... Elation and hopelessness, are two emotions that both tend to translate to crazy in my experience, but hopelessness has a certain "je ne sais quoi"that prompts your inner survivalist into action... Desperation has a strange way of making you keep going, probably because you have nothing to lose. Conversely, the limited experience I have with "contentment" suggests that it quickly gives way to apathy and stagnation... and those are two things I simply can't abide... That being said, I've designated this small fortune to "move" me... Literally and figuratively... I intend to use it to get the fiancee and I a place in Austin again, reconnect with a treatment team (maybe... or parts of one), get my meds straight, my pain sorted out, labs done, DEXA scan, orthopedic treatment, car insurance, etc. Hard to move when you physically and financially CAN'T... so I thought I'd see if I could turn the tables on my long held tradition of irresponsibility... I'm not terribly optimistic, but I'm only as hopeless as I have to be to stay motivated...

I tried to take another stab at remaining purge-free several weeks ago after (MORE) months of pretending that I was working at it (and fooling absolutely no one but myself...) only to find my ED here with me still with no sign of relenting. My behaviors are consistent at least. I don't proper "binge" any longer, however I still subjectively consider everything with calories to be a binge, so my "everything must go" mentality is pretty much still the norm. In a VERY surreal new development after months of totally avoiding every reflective surface and hiding in giant clothing, Texas just got too fucking hot for that shit, and I had to bust out the tanks and steal a few pairs of men's shorts from the fiancee... This has, however, made me into Neurotic Body-checker of the Century, and I now I cannot seem to stop looking down and in the mirror, the car door, the window, disgusted and yet oddly fascinated by my new-ish size... To clarify, it fascinates me in the same way a rash or a tumor fascinates me, it's certainly not a good thing, but it sure is weird and interesting...
Too bad shitty body image remains immune to ointments and radiation...

To further complicate matters, the lack of ability to afford to see a credible doctor in about 2 years has taken its toll on my body, causing it to feel like I distributed sticks to an army of 10,000 invisible bodybuilding gnomes so they can follow me around whacking the shit out of me everyday... My arthritic body makes the simplest activity (like fucking sitting) into a chore... I cannot communicate how profound this pain is, but it is unlike anything I've ever felt, probably because it doesn't heal or dissipate, it only gets worse with each passing day. I've never known myself to be much of a pussy about physical pain, I usually muddle through it to get shit done despite it, but this is different, this isn't going away and I know it... I've almost given up hope that even maintaining a healthy weight is worth it, at least when I had pitiful, atrophied, sorry excuses for muscles, they didn't cripple and torture me so.... Actually sustained a stupid, but reasonable relationship with other people's pain medications for a while... Reasonable, as in I actually took 2, waited 6 to 8 hrs before taking more, and maybe looked for some every 3 days or so... But it doesn't even remotely touch the pain and getting them is exhausting, more money and trouble than it's worth when you're actually hurting... So knocking that out with the check by seeing a specialist is going to be amazing...

But I won't get too happy about it just yet... Then I won't go...

Until next time... hopefully that's soon...
Love and Neurosis,
Little One