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

  The past few weeks, perhaps it's even been longer, are somewhat hazy...
I feared to approach the issues weighing on my mind the heaviest with my typical habit of dissecting them, knowing that I would just make a big mess and solve nothing...
Several monthss back,  I think I gave up... Yes, again...
I discovered for the billionth time in my 28 years on this planet that not one fuck is given about my recovery as long as the state of Texas refuses to insure me via medicaid, despite the fact that I am considered Disabled by the same entity. In addition, I was granted an insulting $16 a month to feed myself and told to try again in December 2013 when I become eligible for SSI/Medicare in addition to my current disability benefits... I'm happy to report that this is because Texas told the Affordable Care Act to fuck itself, so it takes longer to be eligible....
But get this madness, if I don't get a "malnutrition" diagnosis this year and every year I actually need these benefits from now on, I'll lose that too...
 So then I filed my taxes (late) and find out that as of January 2014 I would have been mandated to purchase private insurance ANYWAY... So I thought, perhaps it may benefit me to purchase a private insurance plan to get me from now to December... but wait... Disabled? Doesn't that mean expensive? Pre-existing conditions and whatnot? Your sick already? Well, then there's no way we can insure you, we would have to pay for medical expenses like we are supposed to...
 Thinking long and hard about abandoning the whole time-tested attempts at recovery...
Not only do i seem to give zero fucks... this disorder is my identity now, and i dont trust what'll be next...

We are not worthy!

Things have come to an inevitable head... I had several depressing as fuck phone calls over the past few days... weighing my options (or lack thereof):about the possibility of yet another trip to residential... or even PHP... or anything that I am not doing now...
I was surprisingly excited, or perhaps just desperate, to do the humiliating phone assessments that I've done a thousand times before... I half hoped that some one would say "I know just the thing!" And I'd be scooped up, hugged, supported, and welcomed into an environment that could save me from myself...

  Every conversation ended promptly after "What kind of insurance do you have?" Followed by "Unfortunately we won't be able to help you."
I realized how screwed I was... I knew I forgot something... being sick requires money...
   Furthermore, many leave you with the impression that you need to take a few weeks to go get sicker.... then call back... Sorry we need you to almost die again before you're worth saving...
Fucking absurd....
So they can tell you again that they can't help you... wish you the best of luck with your descent into madness...and their job is done...
  At one point in my life, this constant fuckover made me a staunch supporter of healthcare reform... public option... all that shit...
I identify as a libertarian, but the prospect of not living in terror that my perpetual state of illness goes perpetually untreated, I thought "What the hell?"
I think I should've changed my tone.... been more incredulous...
I feel like everyone around me is fed up and poised to withdraw support.... as a topic I've spent so long running into the ground.... I can't see my bullshit being tolerated much longer....
In fact, I'm damn near the point of banning the topic from my conversations and my life entirely... I'm tired of belaboring this useless argument... "It's not that bad." if I am not yet capable or willing to make the changes then I'm not going to waste everyone's time talking about it incessantly...
Except here I guess... I'm about to expand to some other topical blogs to get my mind off this shit, but rest assured, this disorder has gone absolutely nowhere... I'll keep posting...
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Love and Neurosis

When a Cigar is Just a Cigar...

So in case my elaborate post on nightmare babies made it unclear, I've been just a tad erratic lately...
So erratic that I forget most things that cross my mind almost instantly... until something I apparently said-but-don't-
recall-feeling hurts someone else...Then I realize how it came across and prepare my hair shirt and self- flagellation supplies for the guilt trip...
I'm noticing that I have this very unflattering tendency of mistaking my own feelings about my worth and character for the opinions of others... with consequences that are not so pleasant...
Try explaining to someone who's feelings you've hurt, that all of the dirty looks, frustration, and irritation in your words and actions is really you speaking with the disdain you feel for yourself... Not them...
They just happened to be in the vicinity of your entire life...
They may ask you to explain the Easter Bunny next...

Provided you are fortunate enough to insult someone who cares about you (or at least has a sense of humor about your bullshit...), maybe they'll laugh, but they are probably far from amused.
  The psychological community has sought to understand the loosely defined concept of "transference" (and it's close pal "projection") for decades... Originally, transference was a very specific therapeutic event in psychoanalysis. It occurred when a patient began responding to the analyst as they would a significant authority figure/parent)...
Then the patient, eventually realizes that he is undeniably incorrect in attributing his childhood trauma (and subsequent adult neurosis) to a fucking stranger he paid to listen.
In an ideal world, this would illuminate which of his sexual organs was really to blame for his troubles... Catharsis happens...
And he'll ride a winged unicorn into the sunset...

It was thought that allowing the patient to express undesirable or shameful emotions to the therapist would cause him to process them differently than he had at an earlier stage of development. Bring the subconscious (and perhaps some of the of the unconscious) into consciousness and it won't sneak up on you and make you act crazy...
Or it will anyway, but at least you'll know why..  Transference in therapy and projection as a defense mechanism, have since become common explanations for any instance of misplaced emotion. Once Sigmund Freud had expounded upon his theories, and they gained global momentum, it became apparent that assumptions such as these permeated social situations that do not always necessarily involve a cigar, a couch, or your mother. In fact, had Freud steered clear of referring to anuses and penis envy, his enumeration of the ways we defend ourselves was pretty accurate and still holds...

The feelings each of us have (that we really wish we didn't) are easier to understand and ignore if we don't have to assume direct responsibility for having them...
This causes most of us to repress them, rationalize them, and project them all over creation rather than be stuck with the discomfort... Recently, my own desperation to ignore the state of total relapse I've been in for months, has been making me furious with myself for being so weak... Unfortunately, since the restricting and purging was failing to ease the discomfort, I had to get rid of it some other way. I don't know why, but making it everyone else's fault was how I excused it this time...
That's not to say I was always accurate in my attribution of blame before, but most of the time it's pretty consistently self-directed... I'm neither usually so bold or self-pitying as to feel like it's the cold, cruel world's fault that I'm fucked up, nor is it typical for me to assume that the problem lies with those around me for not caring...
But, alas, this has been going on all fucking week...
  I know that I am the one responsible for the relapse, I know that I am the one who pissed away the professional help and shrugged off the loving support that I've been offered... Now it feels like I'm back in it too deep and I almost don't want to be stopped...
The long and tedious climb up the scale is fully in reverse and my brakes are fucking out...
I find it strange how quickly things have escalated... it took months of slow and tedious work to gain the weight and trust of those around me... It only took weeks to undo about half of the weight gain and all of the trust. I keep telling myself that if I just stop right now, stay put, BE CAREFUL, that I could walk in both worlds. Recovered, but not quite so OBVIOUSLY recovered... I like to think I could teeter on the verge of "normal" indefinitely... without stepping over the edge and careening towards certain death below... I like to think that every time I've supposedly done so in the past is grossly exaggerated... was it really a cliff? or did I just fall a few feet?
I suppose that if I were to analyze how many blatant defense mechanisms just shot out of me in the last paragraph or two, I could deduce that I am definitely in denial... Unfortunately,  merely dissecting all of the tricks my mind plays just leaves me with a big mess splayed all over the autopsy table... I'd like to clean it up and put everything back where it belongs, but I have no idea where anything goes...

"I think the Bad Man is Gone, Mr.B"

So not quite the whiney little bitch I was yesterday...
No resolutions to the laundry list of grievances, but that's ok, what's the point of grieving if you aren't eventually going to move on in spite of yourself...
So I woke up this morning feeling like proper shit and decided to immerse myself in a nightmare of someone else's creation...rescue and harvest some children on Xbox for a bit... That is, I played Bioshock...

In the game, which I am actually playing through for the first time, I'm being presented with this moral dilemma each time I die 60 times and finally kill the giant Big Daddy Robot who protects the Little Sisters...

If I Rescue, I get less ADAM, which is some powerful shit I use to purchase genetic modifications and upgrades, but she becomes a "real girl"...

If I Harvest her, I get more ADAM, but she shrivels up and turns into a giant slug that looks like something out of the movie Slither... Effectively killing her... But making you more of a badass...

While I have not played very far at all in this awesome yet creepy fucking game... And I'm playing it way later in life than most of my fellow gamers...

Each time I go to make this decision of what to do with these eerie little girls, a decision I've now made a whole 5 times after getting my ass stomped by giant robots making orca noises, I have no implications of how it will affect the eventual outcome of the story, only that it will... 

 I usually love this aspect of gaming, used to be really into those Choose-Your-Own-Adventure books as a child... I've always described myself, ironically, as "insatiably curious." I love to manipulate variables and see what happens... While this often gets me into trouble, as it inevitably leads to testing limits and breaking rules, it's rare that my intent is malicious or even all that devious... I just want to explore... Anybody who's ever watched Star Trek or and Indiana Jones movie knows that exploration has both unexpected and painful consequences as well as a plethora of rewards...

 Thus far in the game, I've "harvested" 2 Little Sisters, and "rescued" 3. I have no idea what these disturbing little girls are yet, or even, really what the ADAM I'm sucking from their tiny skulls is... all I know is, that I feel like I'm making a fucked up choice no matter what decision I make...

Perhaps you are wondering why I bring this up...

Well, I have this tendency to be really shit sleeper... I have been my entire life... Recently, in my desperation to knock myself out at night, I've turn to an arsenal of over the counter and herbal remedies to try to coax my overactive brain into slumber... I adapt to medications rapidly, so in the past month I've had to tweak the quantities of the dyphenhydramine (Benadryl), Valerian Root, Melatonin, doxylamine succinate (Unisom), Kava Kava, and the occasional Ambien (when I can get it) to absurd proportions for them to work...

 But in the past week, I've noticed something strange... I'm not only dreaming... but I am remembering dreams, which I have only done intermittently most of my life... More than that, I am dreaming really bizarrely and vividly... and waking up with damn near perfect recall of the shit, to the point where it can both level and disturb me for days...

A creepy trend in these twisted dreams I've been having is babies and children... 

And I'm beginning to realize where Stephen King gets his material...

So three nights in a row last week, I was inventing my own creepy dream children... most disturbingly, in one dream, I was entrusted to protect and nurture myself as a baby... I don't know if you've ever breast-fed a tiny version of yourself, with your exact face, hair, expressions, and personality, in the front pew of a church you don't belong in, but it's unsettling... 

To say the least...

So, naturally, when you wind up having to rescue her and a school full of other elementary school children from 2 teenage ginger boys that transform into green demons that leave rectangular sores when they touch you that ooze radioactive neon slime, you really start to wonder what the fuck your subconscious is getting at... Not to mention when Baby You is ripped from your arms and carried away by the ginger-boy demons and an evil bald leprechaun with black spikes all over his head and carried into the underworld...

And everyone you know and love is there standing on my elementary school playground, fucking looking on and nodding as she's sucked into hell... like its the end of Magnolia and it's fucking raining frogs, "It's just something that happens."

But this is not all...

Only one night prior, in another dream, I had exited an apartment occupied by people I know and total strangers' children dressed in costumes from Yo Gabba Gabba...

 And everywhere I wandered inside of this apartment, people would appear out of nowhere and then proceed to bitch about how rude I was for not seeing them... I ran from the apartment when they began mocking me for being blind... Now outside of this decrepit apartment, I saw bloody water gushing onto the steps and sidewalk from a nearby hydrant... as I sidestepped to avoid the "water", I caught a glimpse of an infant seated with its back to me on an adjacent stairwell leading to another apartment... I suspect I got this image from The Devil's Advocate...

http://www.metacafe.com/watch/mv-djoU8/devils_advocate_film_wheres_your_mommy/

When I approached to check on the baby, two enormous dobermans raced down the stairs to defend him... Baring their razor sharp teeth in my face...

 So, my point in all of this is... It's got to be here somewhere...

 I don't think dreams are much more than manifestations of what your subconscious is attempting to "process"... Nor do I feel deep remorse for the decisions I make in Bioshock...

 What I am all mixed up about is the feelings they leave me with...

When I "Rescued" my first Little Sister in the video game, I felt like I had removed something dark buried deep inside her. She hopped to her feet, her eyes no longer yellow and glowing and said "Gee' thanks.!" But when I tested out the "harvest" option, to my horror, the child melted away and a squirming slug remained in my hands... 

 I think, on some level, I liken this brain drain exorcism shit to my entire life right now...

Caught between two courses of action, I am trying to decide what parts of me are most conducive to living vs. which ones render me useless and dead inside...

Excuse me now while I go scare the crap out of myself to get my answer...

Love and Neurosis

Little One

The Girl Who Cried "Recovery"

Once upon a time...fuck it...
Sometimes, I regretfully admit, I take for granted how lucky I have been to have access to treatment for my eating disorder in the past...
 When I reflect on all of the tools I've been provided over the years, the care I've been given, the friends I have made, I get all warm and tingly inside and rainbows nearly shoot from my ass I'm so grateful...
 But there is a deep-rooted, seething, mess of agression and pain bubbling beneath the surface of that gratitude that leaves me cold, cynical, embittered and utterly enraged with myself...
 The latter is, unfortunately, often the more prevalent sentiment... Especially over the past year...
I know I've probably betrayed this fact in previous posts: The "poor-pitiful-me" sob story where I whine about losing my insurance, and my job and my entire fucking life over the last year... How I relapsed instantaneously, gave up completely, resigned myself to a life of quiet desperation and suck, then magically resolved after almost dying, having some scary fucking seizures and heart problems and osteoarthritis, etc. and reuniting with the love of my life, to at least try to muddle through the complicated business of changing my entire fucking life...
Or maybe you heard the one where "I'm never purging again" rolled off my bloody, seizure bitten tongue back in November before I'd even fully regained consciousness, and that was the start of actually trying to recover...or something like that...
 What really happened is that everyone in my life wanted to have me involuntarily committed to a psychiatric hospital with a court order, specifically one where I would be completely immobilized, tube fed, and forced to lie there thinking about why I had to be in such a position... My boyfriend, friends, and family had gone about the business of researching this option extensively without my knowledge, and proceeded to terrify me with the notion that I had just better do something... Before they inevitably got to their wits' ends, threw up their hands, and  followed through with their diabolical plan... I was incessantly looking over my shoulder in absolute terror for the proverbial padded wagon and white coats "Coming to take me away... (ha ha!)"
They had concluded that I was becoming a legitimate danger to myself, or rather, had always been a danger to myself, and that I had been so for far too long to continue much further... To me, this all seemed wildly melodramatic...excessive... Surely I had not actually gone crazy enough to warrant such extreme interventions...?
This was the kicker... They placed this drastic plan on standby, subtly revealed details that scared the shit out of me, then said that I would have no knowledge of when it would happen, if it would happen, etc. so I couldn't hop on a passing freight train and elope... So every time I got into a car, since I was not yet allowed to drive given the seizing, for the last few months of 2012, I would instantly commence panic mode, terrified of the destination...
 Oddly enough, my idiotic behavior actually underwent very few significant changes, overall at least.  More like it underwent a brief superficial makeover...
 At first, In October, I was pretty serious about "getting better..."(or was it just not getting hospitalized?) My boyfriend supervised my every move for two or three months, my therapist got in on the Involuntary Commitment plan, and I was forced to have all meals with the bf, take medications that skyrocketed my weight, and make weekly weight gains (while assuring my therapist that I didn't care that I was doing so), in order to be permitted to remain an outpatient...
 The sad truth of all of this is that I was never really "outpatient material" to begin with... in fact, the only reason I had ever become one in the first place was because I received my termination notice from work on the same day I attempted to re-enter 10 hour/day treatment...
Fast Forward to January 2013...
 3 months and 40 lbs later, I was at the low end of my "range", and off the wagon in a major way, I had convinced them I was no longer about to die, got off of supervision, and was back to purging every fucking time I looked at food... My saving grace in these dark times was simple: Alcohol... Kept just enough fermented sugar and carb juice down to keep my weight from dropping too noticeably or quickly, while secretly vowing to carefully and covertly wick away what I'd gained and then some...
 The sheer absurdity of this ridiculous scheme is not lost on me...
I don't have any idea why I thought I could get away with quietly tiptoe-ing back to the verge of death, or why I continue to entertain that notion in the back of my mind today...  Perhaps I'm taking the results of that Barry Manilow shirt study from the last post a tad too seriously... But a HUGE part of me actually desires to go completely unnoticed as I make a total ass out of myself...
I digress...
 In the interest of continuity, as January, February, and now March passed, I began to get more and more freedom from those around me. I'm sure you can imagine the finesse with which I handled that freedom if you have not already read about it...
 Did you imagine lots and lots of bullshit and almost no action?
Well give yourself a gold star, because that is exactly what I've been up to since the moment I got off their radar...
With the boyfriend, I'd reveal a fuck up after doing it countless times a day for a few weeks, then I'd eventually break down and cry and confess what a naughty girl I'd been... But what I failed to acknowledge in these breakthrough moments of accountability, was that I had not once asked for help in the moment I was actually doing the up-fucking...
Likewise, the therapist who I've been avoiding appointments with for over a month now, has become a luxury that I can no longer afford to keep... He too, has become a total waste of my time, energy, and very limited budget, all because I tell him about 3% of what I actually do... Because, in his words, he will "send me to the hospital so fast it will make my head spin", if I "play" with him...
 And like the fucking child I am known to be, all I have done is play...
 You see, in my mind, eating once every day or two and only purging like 3 or 4 times a day is me kicking some serious ass... at least in comparison to how I was operating 5 months ago... and most of my life, for that matter... but if I currently had any the financial means to access to a professional opinion, I don't think I would exactly be getting patted on the back...
 Which brings us to tonight...
I have been chain-smoking and thinking and writing all day. This evening, I stumbled upon some news that should have made me happy, a friend who is also struggling is reluctantly returning to a treatment program we attended together... And what started out as relief that she was going to be taken care of and admiration of her strength, slowly morphed into a whole slew of emotions that but sent me spiraling into a pit of despair... And wow, did that ever make me feel like a piece of shit...
 I tried to ignore it... Mostly, because I felt like a sorry excuse for a human being for allowing my thoughts turn in such a selfish direction... But the din soon became an uproar and within moments I was sobbing uncontrollably in my boyfriends arms before I even had a chance to figure out why I was so fucking upset in the first place...
 Eventually, I began to have coherent thoughts, and told him every little awful thought in my head... Most notably, how I have had so many opportunities, so many chances, so many treatments to fix this stupid eating disorder and I pissed away every single one of them... relapsed immediately each time and now that I am utterly destitute and uninsured, I have no help when I would actually put it to good use...
To really blow the kazoo at this pity party, I continued to kick myself...
  I cannot blame anyone but myself for the situation I'm currently in. I was the one who stubbornly resisted every step of the way, I was the one who used up all my chances, and now I am laying in the bed I made for myself. Treatment is not an option for me now, it may never be again. This puts this whole business of trying to "getting better" entirely in the hands of the worst possible person: ME...
And I fucking suck at it...
And its unfair to ask him to stop me... or help me...
And he can't anyway...
And I've exhausted my family and all of their resources years ago...
And so on, and so on... You get the idea... Girl Who Cried "Recovery" when it wasn't really there, one time too many, eventually she gets ignored and it eats her...
 So, then he hits me with this, "So you feel like your doing this alone, but who exactly have you asked to help you?"
Fuck me sideways!
After rattling off a seemingly endless list of places I had worn out my welcome and people who had (justifiably) given up on me, he rephrases it...
"Well, what is it that you need?"
I snickered through the swollen slits of my eyes, "If I knew that I wouldn't need help!"
Then, it really hit me, the real answer:
"I have no concept of what I need. What I need is someone to fucking follow me around telling me what I need...or I'll forget that I have needs..."

Love and fucking Neurosis