I retract my previous statement.

Blast from the Past: http://zoloftandcoffee.blogspot.com/2013/02/so-cycle-continues.html

"Remember that class I mentioned...? Yeah, I fucked that up already. Who was I kidding? Thinking I could pretend I wasn't a failure long enough to drag myself to a class three days a week for two whole months....The stress of this class is killing me.

The class is about to start. I'm sitting here. Shaking hands. Hyperventilating. Face soaked in tears. Bottle of wine beckoning me. Regretting that I dumped my arsenal of pills over the weekend. Those fucking glimpses of hope ruin everything."

I don't have the time to write a well thought out post. And I don't have the privacy to get emotional in what I write. But there is something I need to say: 

I retract my previous statement. I am not a fuck up. I thank god I dumped those pills. And I say this as a certified peer support specialist. Yup, I finished the class I thought was beyond my capability.

Those "fucking glimpses of hope" may have given me a higher fall when shit hit the fan, but being raised up for that moment gave me a chance to see past the current hell I was in. Past the suicidal ideations. Past the cutting. Past the racing thoughts and psychotic episodes. I saw beyond to a future that included me, a productive me, a happy me. 

And now I'm there. I proved myself wrong. For once I can honestly say that I'm proud of myself. 

Short and Sweet.

I'm boring. I don't freak out anymore.

It's been, what, 3 weeks since I've last written a post? Damn. That's not how you get followers.

I feel as though I owe my few followers, and anyone who happens to stumble across my blog, an explanation as to why I am no longer sitting down to record every detail of my journey with mental monsters. An explanation as to why I only make an appearance every few weeks to bitch about how my job is bringing me down. Or some other common complaint.

The reason is simple: I'm living again.

I don't want to go as far as to say that I've won the war with my monsters. I don't want to say that I beat those fuckers and have completed my journey to recovery. Because I have one hell of a road ahead of me. But I have made some serious progress.

Let's recap, shall we? It has been almost two full months since I last cut myself. Since coming home from the hospital, I have not once spent the day hiding under the covers, crying, waiting for Boyfriend to come home and pick me up. I have a new job that I love. I'm doing good in the world. (Yes, I mean "good" and not "well.) In two weeks, I will be certified as a peer support specialist. Hell, I'm even toying with the idea of going back to school for my master's degree.

Not bad, right? (Also, the fact that I'm bragging about all this right now kinda shows how much my self-esteem has sky-rocketed. Again, go me!)

It's terrifying to think about how my mind was operating just a few short months ago. I wanted to die. I thought I was going to die. I was welcoming it. I couldn't see any of the beauty in the world, and I felt like I was just making it even uglier for those who could.

My monsters were strong and suffocating. They were real, but remembering the hold they had over me feels unreal. I've come so far that I can't bring myself to believe that I am the same person I was when I entered the hospital on January 28. I am a doppelganger of my former self. I am a new and improved Mary - strong and self-reliant, hopeful and happy.

There will probably come a time when I need Boyfriend to hold my hope for me again. Or when my maladaptive coping mechanisms take the reigns and steer me off my path of recovery. But I honestly can't picture reaching those depths I found myself in a few months ago ever again. I've reached the proverbial end of the tunnel of what I thought was an eternal shit storm.

But I didn't do it alone. Thank you, Boyfriend. Thank you, Dad. Thank you to all my friends and family who never let me go where the monsters pulled. I hope I'm making you proud.

Bipolar Fairy and a Sock Full of Quarters

The Bipolar Fairy has struck again. But I'm not going to bitch about her flaky demeanor this time. I think she is granting me my wish of being on the "up" side of things for longer than a day before crashing and burning and all that jazz. 

I have had hope that has gone past one day. Yes, that means I have spent approximately 36 hours without the thought of killing myself. 2,160 minutes of choosing to be better. 129,600 seconds of happiness. A day and a half that is looking like it's going to lead to TWO full days. And then THREE. And then, holy shit, I may be able to function into next week. 

Inhale. One day at a time. Exhale. Stay in the present. Repeat.

And I'm doing it on my own. Of course, Boyfriend and Dad are there for me. My friends are giving me their usual support. They always are, but I am the one taking control, exercising my right to choose, and doing so in an aggressively optimistic manner. So, fuck you, Monsters. Fuck you and whatever mythical creature you rode in on. I'm going to bottle this hope and smack you with it like a sock full of quarters when this happy fairy flies away. My choice.

Happy Chinese New Year!

I have a belly full of egg rolls, a glass of Riesling by my side, and a couple fortune cookie inserts on my refrigerator. Oh, and 4 tabs teaching me about my Chinese zodiac opened on my laptop. This is how to celebrate the Chinese New Year - culturally-insensitive American cheap-ass style.

2013 - The Year of the Snake, the Black Snake.  The snake who will hopefully have a little mercy on this enthusiastic, yet misguided, dragon.

Normally, I just live the Chinese New Year vicariously through my older brother who gets to experience it firsthand. Yeah, my awesome older brother lives in China. No biggie. This year, I wanted to celebrate it myself. Maybe this isn't exactly celebrating in the traditional sense, but I am acknowledging the fresh start and the chance to make the Year of the Black Snake my own.

(And I think it just sounds better than 2013 too. "I'm going to kick ass in the Year of the Black Snake" vs "I'm going to kick 2013's ass". Yes, I will take the snake symbolism, please.)

Let's recap. Early in the day, December 31, 2012, I posted a Facebook status gushing about how 2013 will be my best year yet. So hopeful, I was! And then something or nothing happened. I don't know. Later that night, I was a diving head first into the dark hole I had spent the past 5 months clawing, bleeding and crying, my way up. Less than two weeks into 2013, I would be checking myself into a locked psychiatric unit, avoiding eye contact with the imaginary faces of disappointment on the real people who pulled me up when I forgot to keep clawing.

I repeated this cycle once more before the end of January. Crawl up. Reach for hope. Slipping. Oh, shit. Hospital. Fuck.

It's scary how I can go from hopeful to hospital in a matter of days. It's scary that it happened twice in one month and scary that I am not confident it won't happen again in February. But I have learned something between my first New Year's celebration I cried through and the Chinese one tonight: going to the hospital is not as scary as not going to the hospital. Had I lacked the balls to pack my bags and spend a week at Aurora, Boyfriend would probably be packing up the rest of my belongings to donate to charity, or whatever it is the boyfriend does with the girlfriend's stuff when she swallows 348.5 pills.

I don't regret what happened during the first month of the year. It was something that needed to happen and was probably a long time coming. But I am ready to start fresh. This beginning, February 10, lets me do just that only this time with one hell of a solid plan, not undefined delusions of grandeur.

I have resources in the community that I can turn to.
I have self-help books that I have faith in.
I am enrolled in a class that will teach me more about myself and others like me.
I have a job lined up in the field.
I have lists upon lists of actions I can take to avoid breakdowns.
I have hope that comes from inside myself.

I could go on. But I don't want to. I want to finish my wine, maybe get one more celebratory glass, and write in my trusty journal. (Yes, I do write things that the whole world isn't allowed to see.) But first, Happy Chinese New Year, everyone!! To all of those who fucked up January, here's your guilt-free opportunity to start over. Or eat egg rolls.

You will be jealous I got to go and you didn't.

You know that feeling when you go back to your diary after not writing in it for a really long time, and, even though logically you're aware it's just a bundle of paper, you feel awkward because you know it knows you've been ignoring it? No? Just me? Ok.

Well, that's how I feel right now. I was in the hospital for a week and spent another week legitimately not knowing how to put into words what happened. Every time I thought about writing here, I had that sudden urge to hide, like when I pretend that I missed someone's text so that I don't have to make a commitment to hang out right then. I know I am not the only one who does that.

But, here I am. Braving the blog. Still awkwardly not knowing what to say to this beloved friend. I want to come back with a bang. With fireworks. Fireworks shot off by sharks.

Yeah, I'm on a couple drugs.

In keeping with the theme of feeling scattered and unsure and unable to truly acknowledge the gap, how about I just sprinkle out some of the more interesting moments of my stay in the hospital. When I have a solid footing on what actually went down, I'll let you know. But to be honest, that won't happen. I will continue to fling out random goodies and let you piece them together. That seems to be how I roll.

We're just going to skip over the intake process.

Skipping over the crying.
Skipping over the desire to escape.
Skipping over the fucked up idea that death looked preferable over being committed.

Onto the good stuff.

View from my hospital window. Through regular screen,
blinds that didn't adjust, and safety screen.

SAFETY:  They took all my drawstrings from my hoodies and sweatpants. I wasn't allowed to have tights or a purse with a long strap because I might be able to hang myself with them. Even the cords on the phones were no more than a foot long. Although, there was nothing to hang myself from. No curtain rods. No rods for hanging clothes in the closet. No hooks to put a jacket on. Even the shower head was a nub that stuck flush to the wall. The doorknobs were these cone-like things that were impossible to grasp. There were a few times when Dad visited that he legit couldn't get out of my room because he couldn't turn the damn knob. Nothing protruding out of anything anywhere.

I was fine with all that. Hanging myself was never really my style anyways. What pissed me off was when they took all my spiral notebooks and left me with just one that had no metal on it. And I was only allowed one pen! For safety reasons. Well, fuck that. I cannot feel safe unless I have at minimum 3 notebooks and 4 pens circling me. (Totally made that up, but that is what my kitchen table looks like 24/7. So maybe there is a grain of truth to it.)

My first 2 days of being there, I managed to steal no less than 6 pens from the nurse's station and group therapy sessions. I never ended up using any of them; I couldn't cheat on my precious pen. I became a klepto based on principle.

BONNY (name changed for anonymity): One day during group, we were discussing what types of feelings brought us there. Loneliness. Sadness. Drug abuse. Depression. Despair. Suicidal ideations. Homicidal thoughts. Say what now?! Enter Bonny.

Bonny was probably about 75 years old. She looked like the petite little grandma-type that you could picture  working on a puzzle to pass the time while her snicker doodles baked. Except for one little thing. She openly admitted that she was homicidal. She had a victim in mind. And a method.

I don't know what this says about me, but she was my favorite. She had this horribly dark sense of humor that, if taken the wrong way, could have earned her a reservation in the seclusion room. But it's Bonny, so everyone laughed.

Nurse: "Bonny, here's your nighttime meds."
Bonny: "Good. If you would have forgotten, I would have had to whoop you with my cane."
Everyone laughs.

Group Leader: "What's going on with you? What brought you to the hospital?"
Bonny: "Well, I'm bipolar and homicidal. Which means I'm not sure if I'm going to kill me or her (points to random patient)."
Everyone laughs. Including random patient.

The icing on the cake is that Bonny lives in a convent with her sister who is a nun. And Bonny openly admits that she likes to fuck with the other nuns, showing off her lack of vows to God by purchasing expensive items and flaunting them in front of those who took a vow of poverty.

Had I never gone to the hospital, I never would have been able to say that I engaged in friendly chit chat with a homicidal sister of a nun over lunch.

FAVORITE GROUP: My proudest moment of my visit had nothing to do with medications or breakthroughs or discoveries. It took place during the last group session on my last day before I was discharged.

Let me set the stage. We are discussing what and who has helped us the most during our journeys. Many patients are calmly and vaguely discussing their families, friends, and religious affiliations. But one patient is hardcore a "Jesus saved me, this I know" type. In the obnoxious, judgmental, scoff at my Star of David bracelet kind of way. Now, there is absolutely nothing wrong with using your faith to help your recovery. In fact, I would encourage it. However, NEVER use it to jeopardize someone else's.

Then there is Jenny (again, name changed). She is quite, timid, and easily shut down by this loudmouth bitch. Jenny starts talking about how NAMI has helped her immensely. After waiting her turn, she tells the group about the volunteer opportunities, how they help the community, and how they probably saved her life. Jesus Bitch butts in. "I hate NAMI. I hate their core beliefs. They do NO good. All they care about is making money. Blah blah Jesus blah."

Jenny shuts down, bows her head in defeat, and the group carries on. Mary to the rescue! "Can I just say something real quick? I don't want the last thing people to hear about NAMI before they leave is how awful it is. I have seen firsthand how much those people care. Maybe Jesus Bitch had a bad experience, but everyone else needs to know that it is a safe place for them to go if they need help." Sadly, I did not refer to her as Jesus Bitch. My one regret.

Jenny perks up and Jesus Bitch turns red. We argue back and forth for a bit. She gets louder, angrier, and more irrational while I continue to calmly state my opinions and back them up with examples. I'm pretty sure at one point she even blamed NAMI for the lack of care that I had received prior to coming to the hospital. How? I don't even know.

"I don't give a fuck what you think. And fuck NAMI. I have Jesus backing me up for support. I don't need to take this." And out she walked. In my book, that was a win for me. A couple other patients gave me silent nods of approval, and the second half of group was far more pleasant. I stood up for Jenny, stood up for NAMI, and stood up for myself for once. Maybe I did find a little confidence that week.

*****

I am not yet ready to explain what happened from a medical or psychiatric standpoint, but I can with 100% certainty say that it was a good thing I went. Sure, I have had a few down days since coming home, but that's to be expected. The important thing is that I am safe again and willing to seek the help I need without being put in the hospital again, and that is something I don't think I would have reached by myself.

Thank you, Aurora.

Mad as a Hatter and Just as Sane

Maybe I cut my wrist one too many times. Maybe I talked about the relief I would get from killing myself a little bit too freely. Maybe I realized that it's not fair to make my friends and family responsible for protecting me from myself.

The truth is, I'm not safe by myself anymore, and I know it. Every time I am left to my own devices for more than 10 minutes, there is a damn good chance that I will be hunting down something sharp or challenging my garden of pill bottles to a staring contest. Even when I am not alone, a breakdown can strike with a snap of the monster's fingers. And it's happening more and more often.

So I need to leave. In less than five hours, I will be going with Dad to admit myself into a residential program at the hospital. For real this time.

This may be one of the first times I have set out to write a blog post and had no words. It's not a case of writer's block or being unmotivated. It's that I feel frozen in this space and time. A numbness beyond the lithium and seroquel and lamictal. A natural, self-protecting numbness against my fear of the unknown and leaving my not-so-safe comfort zone.

I can't picture leaving my home and moving into my room at the mental hospital. I can't picture not using Pinterest, TV, my blankets, and cleaning as distractions against my monsters when I am alone all day. I can't picture not using razors and calories to fight them off when distractions fail. I can't picture having coping mechanisms that are healthy and actually effective. I can't picture having to trust someone with my life besides Boyfriend.

This numbness will disappear in a few hours. I bet I'll start getting nervous after I take a shower and start picking out an outfit that suits the day, the day I admit that I am too crazy to live in the real world. It will really kick in on the car ride over when the reality of the situation sets in. Racing heart, sweaty palms, winking monsters. By the time I am left alone at my new home, my fucked up head will be spinning with a fight or flight reaction that will likely result in some sort of unwanted sedation.

I don't know if I will be there for a few weeks, a month or two. A part of me still feels like this is a bad dream. I am never leaving my home. But I also feel like this is my last day ever to sit on my couch, cuddle with my cat, sleep in my bed, write at my desk, look out my window, cook for Boyfriend. Make my own decisions. When I think about these things, I don't understand how everything I could need in the world isn't right here at my fingertips. Everyone and everything I love is outside those hospital walls. I will be locked inside, separated from them. How will that help? How will that not make things worse?

I guess I just have to let go for a little while. Open myself up to the possibility that this might be what's best. That I just might walk out of there healthier and happier than I have ever felt. Instead of adding some reinforced steel to my guarded walls, I should cut out a window to see the great opportunity that may be in front of me. I don't want to and I don't have to live the rest of my life this fucked up. And maybe, just maybe, I really do want my life to last longer than I think.

Most likely, this hope will disappear when time starts moving again. But at least I will be leaving my written record of the fact that there was hope in admitting myself to the hospital. I won't be able to reread this when I am there, but maybe someone else will. Maybe someone else who is struggling will read my other posts illustrating how horribly fucked I am in the head and think that if someone as crazy as me can take this step, then so can they.

Ok, now let's do this shit. See you in a month.

Say Hello to Your Life

Last night, I did it. I finally did it. I caked shit tons of make up on my face, pulled my leg warmers up over my neon leggings, and ventured out the safety of my home for a night out with friends. And yes, the lovely attire I donned was for an 80's themed party.

In addition to discovering how much I freaking love leg warmers, I rediscovered how great it can be to be around other people. These past couple of months, it has become increasingly easier to stay cooped up, seeing no one but Boyfriend and texting no one but a few close friends who know the embarrassing ins and outs of what I've been dealing with. But last night, I got to see them all at once, in person, and in a living room other than my own.

As awesome as it was, I can't say that it healed me or made me forget that I'm crazy. There were still points during the party where my mind would draw a blank, forgetting what were we doing and why. I had a few silent moments of panic when I couldn't figure out whose voices were coming from which direction. Unless I made a serious effort to stay connected, I would get lost.

That being said, it was important for my recovery knowing that it is possible for me to be social, have a genuinely good time doing so, and not be judged (or possibly even noticed) when my madness tries to introduce herself to the other guests. For the most part, I still had control.

Going to a party may be a different experience for me than it would be for someone else who doesn't have mental illness issues to deal with, but it is definitely an experience that I want to continue to have. Maybe alongside a bit of overdue treatment.

Beginning the Book

Of all the pieces I've written, this is the one I have been the most leery about posting. I've been dreaming about writing a book for years, but in my state, I can't go about it the proper way.

It scares the hell out of me to think about how my mood, dreams, and emotions can change in a mere 12 hours. But since I'm not in that state anymore, I feel a bit disconnected from what I wrote. So here it is:

INTRODUCTION/ CHAPTER 1

In the spirit of the way I feel and have been acting, I am going to write this book in the most fucked up way imaginable. My method goes against everything I’ve ever learned as a student of Literature and Philosophy. There will be no outlines. I’m not going to research important topics before portraying myself as an expert. Hell, there is a good chance that I won’t even edit the finished product. I’m taking the whole “unreliable narrator” thing to the edge and over.

I am going to write my story as it plays itself out. At this moment, I have no true diagnosis for whatever it is that is causing me to go crazy. I am off all the meds that I had been taking to help me sit still, shut up, and stop crying. We are starting at square one. No drugs in my system, no professional help being received, no clue what the future holds.

Actually, if this thing actually does make it to publication, you will probably know more about the ending than I do as I am sitting here writing it. The jacket may say something like, “One girl’s harrowing story of the journey into the dark descent of “going bat-shit crazy” (insert medical term here).” Or in a more Sylvia Plath-like style: “Mary receives immortality through her death, all captured in this eerily compelling diary of a novel.”

But more than likely, this book will sit here on my Google Drive, another relic in the collection of projects I’ve abandoned, failures I’ve achieved, and goals I couldn’t reach.

Let me set the stage. Nothing about the future. I don’t know what that will bring or if it exists. Nothing about the past. Given there is a future, we will have time to talk about that later. Here is what’s going on with me, body and mind, as I sit here at my computer at 9:46 in the morning on January 23, 2013.

My wrist itches. There are 18 healing cuts going every which direction neatly placed between two disgusting, parallel scars. I want desperately to scratch the hell out of them, half because I hope it will open up the scab and I can enjoy the blood again, half because it just really itches.

I’ve been awake for less than an hour. My mind is dazed from all the sleeping pills I took last night but not so dazed that I’m prevented from thinking about the option of killing myself. I have gone back and forth half a dozen times. What should I have for breakfast? Whatever. The calories I eat today won’t matter if I off myself tomorrow. No, if I act normal maybe I’ll be normal and they won’t put me in the mental hospital again. What should I make Boyfriend dinner? Will I be here for dinner? I hope not. I hope so. I hope not. Fuck.

Chance are, I am not going to kill myself. I have lethal doses of drugs about 4 feet away from me. Up the stairs and to the right, I have a bottle of razors. If I really wanted to die, I would be dead. What I really want is to not live. I know they sound like the same thing, but they are not. Living is too painful. It is physically and emotionally taxing to be present in my head at all times. A minute doesn’t pass without me thinking about how I am ruining everything for everyone little by little every second I am here. But I know that if Boyfriend comes home to find me dead on the ground, or if a hotel cleaning lady finds me in the bathtub, all hell will break loose, at least for a moment. I don’t want to do that to anyone either. Instead, I want to fade into the background until I can disappear unnoticed. Not death by suicide. Just a mystery of science that people will shrug at before they change the channel my medical mystery is being sold on, disregarding it more quickly than it happened.

So there’s my pipe dream. Until I can figure out the logistics behind making it reality, I am forced to continue on this path, grasping at fleeting moments of hope and hiding under my sanctuary of blankets.

It may be weeks before I add more words to this document. But it could also be as soon as this afternoon. I may be under the influence of doctor-prescribed meds that help. Or ones that don’t. I may be able to wear short sleeves in public again. I may be writing with a bleeding wrist.

Recording the events of my journey is less for what the reading public will think about the completed, and more about giving my monsters somewhere to reside. Maybe if I keep putting the abstract mental monsters into words, giving them definition and taking away their illusionary power, I will be able to lock them inside the pages of this book forever, freeing myself from their hold and allowing myself to make the decision about whether to live or die on my own.

Found a Vein of Hope

My reasons for writing are two-fold.

1.  I promised I would come here when I had a little bit of hope.

2.  That hope is making me think I'm Superman; writing grounds me.

I have the downstairs clean enough that I don't feel like I am reminded of all my failures every time I turn my head. That being said, I can see every speck of dust I missed, see every hidden space that I know is just a cornucopia of disgust, and feel the overwhelming need to fix it all at once. While doing something for myself to relax. And writing a book. All before lunch.

Maybe this isn't hope. Maybe it's a manic delusion. But if it were a delusion, wouldn't I not be aware of the fact that I'm in a delusional state? For the sake of my sanity, let's call it hope. I digress.

On top of the downstairs being clean enough to not need to escape to the safety of under the blanket, I may have actually stumbled across something that could help. This awesome place offers free classes in yoga, meditation, and more. For free! I know I said "free" twice. It's super important. 

If I can keep up this momentum, not paralyzed by my own depression or detonating under the pressure of my racing head, I might be able to make it tonight. 9 hours until Buddha has a chance to work his magic.

Fucked up Welcome Back Free Write

Where do I pick up after abandoning my blog for almost 2 weeks? Has it been two weeks? Honestly, I don't know even what day it is. I spent the majority if the day thinking it was Friday and even when I learned it was Tuesday, I continued on as though it were Friday. 

Something is seriously wrong with me at the moment. I can't really say "at the moment" considering this has been going on for the past several weeks, and years, before that. So I am going to free-write my scattered, fucked up, horrible thoughts here until the Lorazopam I popped kicks in and I can finally get a brief moment of peace before I crumble under the weight of myself.

If I had to sum it up in just a few words, those words would be "The monsters are winning." Yup, they are back full force, taking control over every mechanism that makes me me. They decide when I am fast, physically and mentally. Like today, my monsters thought it was fucking hilarious to watch me run around the house gathering up every piece of fabric for the laundry, rearranging the bathroom so it's more pleasant for the cat, and crawling on my hands and knees picking up lint so that the house would look perfect. Because a perfect looking house means that I'm not crazy. Haha, thanks, guys, but everyone knows damn well that fucked up. All this while making a list of things I don't have time to do today but can work on tomorrow. Like scrub the walls and paint the bookshelves and create some wall art for the bedroom with no money.

That was today, but most days the monsters shut me down. I spend way too much time crying under a blanket hating myself so much that it physically hurts. I dwell over the fact that I am ruining Boyfriend's life and he won't admit it. I beat myself up over everyone that I have left in the wake of my destruction. I hate the evil parts of the world that I am too incapicated to fix when I am depressed and only contribute to its downfall when I'm not. But what really makes me break down, really makes the tears flow and the hyperventilating to the point of passing is the fact that the little girls I nanny for, the little girls I love so fucking much it isn't even possible, won't remember who I am. If the monsters kill me, everyone else will mourn for the appropriate time, move on with their lives, and occasionally look back at the sordid part of their past that included me. Those girls won't. I still can't decide whether that is motivating to get better or pushing me further into the depression.

If the depression and the wild weren't enough, I'm also having some pretty fuck-tastic dissociation episodes. I don't know if that is the right way to describe it. The doctor I saw about it won't tell me. In a nutshell, the world around me disappears. I am trapped in a bubble of just me until my head and body start to separate. Then I am left with two options. I can either sit there and bawl like a baby in terror for hours until miraculously the world is in focus again. Or I can speed up the process and cut myself. I know, totally fucked up. Or maybe not. The doctor didn't think it was important enough to talk about.

I suppose it is worth mentioning that I'm off all my meds. They were numbing me. They were making it harder and harder for me to write, the one and only thing that I took any pride in before this whole ordeal. I believe that they were prescribed to me by doctors who really didn't give a shit about my well-being. They just wanted me to talk slower and sit still. So fuck em. Fuck the doctors who wouldn't give me more than 5 minutes to explain what was wrong. And fuck the meds they gave me to shut me up.

I came to this lovely conclusion after spending a bit of time at a temporarily unnamed mental facility. (When I reveal where this care came from, I want to do so in a more level-headed manner.) I admitted myself with great support from Boyfriend and Dad with the hope that I was finally going to get real help. That maybe someone would be able to explain to me what I was saying to them in confusion. Nope. I got in a fight with Dr. Narcissist and was discharged against medical advice. But more on that later.

So here I am. Free from Lithium. Free from Zoloft. Starting the cycle over again. Taking on the monsters that are stronger than ever with my bare fists and losing. Apparently there is never a good time to bow out graciously, or at least that is what I'm told. So I have to keep fighting for something I don't even believe in anymore. Hope is gone. Or I was naive to think it was ever there to begin with.

The Lorazopam has kicked in finally. I'm probably going to regret posting this later, but whatever. For now, maybe I can maybe enjoy a few moments of the day. 

I have the energy to fight back now.

I am always afraid that people will think I "chose" to become anorexic so that I would be thin and beautiful. Maybe they will think I starved myself for the attention and darkly glamorous life. I even thought maybe people would accuse me of lying because someone my size could never be anorexic. I could lie and say that I've never heard these things in the 5 years since being diagnosed. One bitch did. She mocked me when I was at my lowest and called me fat when it was in remission. Even though no one with a moral compass or smidge of sensitivity ever said anything negative, that one still keeps me from wanting to talk about it. 

Well, this goes out to that one bitch. 

It is because of people like her that there is a stigma. 

If anorexia was a choice I made to become beautiful, I clearly did something wrong. Anorexia didn't turn me into a waif-like movie star with a narrow waist, big boobs, and luxurious hair. I was a skeleton with bones. And bad hair. And brittle nails. And dull skin. No amount of hot oil treatments, manicures, or makeup could fix the way I looked. But that wasn't the point. The point was that there will still an ounce of fat on the outer part of my left thigh, and I had to get rid of it. That ounce of fat stood between me and my desire to be completely clean, totally empty of anything that was bad in me, mentally or physically.

If I did it for the attention, why did I isolate myself when it was at its worst? That is how I lost all attention. After canceling on friends for months, they stopped calling. I didn't have the energy to make new friends. Or the time. I had a lot of calorie counting, exercising, and pretending to be functional at school to do. I didn't want attention because doing things with people who weren't crazy meant that they would try to get me to eat or ask me why I've lost weight or gossip about me after I left. It was easier to stay holed up in my apartment staring at my books.

And as for anorexia being glamorous? A bony butt that hurts if you have to sit for more than 15 minutes isn't glamorous. Going to sleep every night mentally planning how to not go over your 300 calorie limit for the next day isn't glamorous. Exercising at 2 in the morning because you woke up from a nightmare that you ate a piece of what used to be your favorite cake isn't glamorous. None of it is.

The last accusation: that I couldn't be anorexic because I wasn't skinny enough. That is kinda the nature of the illness in action right there. Anorexia makes you think you're fat when you're not, and deliberately calling someone who has this illness "fat" is like handing someone who is suicidal a loaded gun. I was almost 40 pounds underweight, and I still thought I was fat. I was terrified of other people thinking so too. Obviously, anorexia had a pretty firm hold on my body and mind. But even if I wasn't grossly thin, even I was a "healthy" weight, who is an outsider, with no professional right to diagnose or personal right to comment, to judge what mental illness I may or may not have? 

No one can truly understand what this illness is like unless they have gone through it, but as a society, we should have enough sensitivity to the issue to allow those who suffer from it to feel comfortable sharing their experience, asking for help, and healing without judgment.