Hi, My Name Is...

I had a panic attack today because I had a hard time buttoning my jeans. My jeans are supposed to be comfortable. Instead, they're tight. So I handled it like a person with an eating disorder and I skipped breakfast.

The first time a mental health professional suggested I had an eating disorder I nearly walked out of her office in protest. We all know the story about eating disorders, and the "new" face of eating disorders. [From now on, ED for short.] I'm almost stereotypical. Refusing to admit or agree to an ED diagnosis because I'm fat. ED isn't fat, ED is skinny girls whose ribs are visible, thin women who eat whatever they want and then throw it back up again. Fat girls are just uncontrolled. Fat girls just don't have any willpower. Fat girls are too lazy to exercise. I am many things, I thought, but I am not living with an eating disorder.

But I didn't leave her office, because I knew how much time I spent thinking about my food. How I would plan around eating. How I felt trapped by it. How lost I was in the disease. A disease I wouldn't believe I was facing. So I stayed in her office, and I kept coming back. I went to the group sessions. I learned a new language. I learned coping mechanisms.

I never accepted the idea of an ED diagnosis. For awhile, I lived in a place where I just treasured being able to eat without obsessing. I didn't plan around food. It was liberating.

And I got fatter.

I tried to exercise more; I forgot to make time for it. I started using various methods to track exercise, so I had solid data on when/what/how.

It triggered disordered eating behavior.

I tried to cut back on my food intake; I began to obsess about food. I started counting calories and forcing myself to earn the right to eat those calories.

That is disordered eating behavior.

I tried to "go back" to a comfortable place, where eating was just about food, and I got fatter. Which is why my jeans didn't want to button today.

Sometimes I cancel plans so that my friends can't see how much I weigh. Sometimes I break down and research the "best" fast weight loss methods. I've been taking green coffee supplements, hoping for magical results, without telling anyone - especially not my current ED therapist.

This is disordered behavior.

Here is my reality: I am a fat girl with an eating disorder.

I wish I could tell so many people:
I can't talk to you because at least once in every conversation you talk about your current diet/exercise/plan for weight and I feel overwhelmed.
Or
I can't interact with you online because your fitness/nutrition/food regime makes me feel like a failure as a person.
Or
I can't bear to repeat myself anymore because all I can safely give you is the most basic/obvious/tertiary explanations for some of my choices.

And
None of this is your fault.
And
My therapist would like me to believe that none of this is my fault (though it's my responsibility to deal with it).
And
I don't want to be a fit fat woman. I want to be a healthy person.

I struggle with the reality of this all. Sometimes I wonder why anyone bothers adding a label. Other times I wish I could wear my label as a sign, a shorthand to explain things to the world. Once in awhile, I wonder why I live with "the crazies."*  Most of the time, I wonder why I'm so broken.

Today, my (ED specialist) therapist led me to admit I need to begin accepting some things. By refusing to accept them I am suffering needlessly. I have elevated pain to misery. And through acceptance, I can change that situation. Some of the power is mine, and it's time I took it back.

I live with an eating disorder.

I want to pretty it up, ignore it, move on, say I'm cured... but the truth is that I live with it every day.

Now we know.





*the crazies: my new term to encompass my depression, anxiety, PTSD, eating disorder, crippling perfectionism/self-doubt, and being an intensely empathetic person (which, according to my mental health professional, is not a 'crazy' diagnosis but rather her professional opinion and worth noting because it leaves me incredibly vulnerable to the world/people around me).

Honesty, transparency, and health.

I go back and forth fairly often, trying to decide what I want to say and what format I want to say it in. My life isn't secret, by any stretch, but I try to practice boundaries. Some things shouldn't be thrown out into the public world. Other things need to be thrown out. Most things are really in between.

Social media is a beast I wrestle with regularly. Using it, turning it off, hating it but participating, and so many things in between. And yet, blog posting seems much more indirect. Virtually no one "follows" a blog post anymore. Or, at least not mine. I'm not complaining. I'm trying to explain. Or understand myself, I suppose.

Tonight, I had a wonderful painful long talk with a friend. Mostly, I talked and she listened. Today has been a hard day, and she's a wonderful listener. She regularly interrupted me to encourage me to be nice to myself. [She has this strong stance that I need to be much kinder to my own self than I am in everyday practice.] I cried. I jumped from one tale to another. I tried to explain complicated things in simple ways. There were long moments of silence while I tried to keep it together rather than be taken over by sobs. There were moments I garbled, trying to talk through the heaviness in my chest and the thickness in my throat, and I don't know how she could understand - except that it wasn't the words in that moment, but rather the love. She was able to reach to me from 650 miles away and (figuratively) put her hand on my shoulder until I could bear up under my own life again.

And during one of the times I listened, she told me that I should write it all down and then ask myself

[Was that sad?
Was that hard?
Was that hurtful?
Was that wonderful?
Was that unique?
Was that an important part of my experience?]

"Are these things 'just' anything?"

I may be misquoting her. I'm sure of it, in fact. But these are the words I've carried forward, and I believe I  know her well enough that if she reads this she'll just nod in satisfaction that I got the message.

My response: I don't write anymore. It's one of the things that goes away when I'm 'well' medicated.

Part of today's experience is that I'm no longer well medicated. So, here we are. Writing. I'm not sure what about exactly.

Sadness, maybe. Or just the emptiness that goes along with pouring out all the words, but feeling unheard. I'm not sure.

I'm going to work on this for awhile. Boundaries. Outlets. Sharing. Not sharing.

The thing is, I have a lot I want to say. I a lot I want to tell. But I'm not sure where to tell it, or to whom I wish to speak.

QUIET. please.

Loud. Close. Hard. Intense.

Those are good words for life off the antidepressant. The antidepressant that insulates me a little from everything, makes everything feel just that much farther away. Life is RIGHT IN MY FACE right now and it's really uncomfortable.

Which is part of the reason - possibly even most of the reason - I'm sitting at the corner desk, hiding from the kids, ignoring the need to cook dinner (after all, I just ate a bunch of skittles), and writing a rambling blog post.

Except.

Lately, those words have been fairly accurate summations of life. Until today - really, until about 4 hours ago - when life went from loud, close, hard, and intense to

Seemingly

Unbearable.

But what's a responsible educated woman to do?

I am resisting the urge to simply implode my life. To undo the work of 16 years. To... make walking away justifiable.

But.

I'm resisting. Because even if I don't deserve this life we have, the people I have this life with deserve better than my destruction.

Definitions, Connotations, and Exposure Therapy

In the last month, I've been suffering from panic attacks again. I have been trying to cope with them in a crisis methodology: self care being my top priority. It's what I've done before, and it gets me through. But after  years of suffering, and then years of life-changing DBT (Dialectical Behavior Therapy) I've realized that I don't need to be limited to suffering. I can change this situation. I can lessen the impact of my panic attacks. I can lessen my triggers. There's a catch, though. I have to face them, the things that make me panic.

Facing them. Exposure therapy.

Exposure Therapy:
a technique in behavior therapy used to treat anxiety disorders. It involves the exposure of the patient to the feared object or context without any danger in order to overcome their anxiety.


Exposure therapy looks like this, in my experience: repeatedly imagining the feared context while safely in the therapist's office. Using present tense to describe the situation. Remembering sights, sounds, smells, tastes, feelings. Rating my anxiety level before beginning. Rating my anxiety level after. Saying it, facing it, again and again, until the words don't choke me anymore and I'm not in danger of throwing up all over the office floor. Until I can note the anxiety levels and then breathe. Remembering how the situation is past now, and the anxiety I feel now can be let go. Breathe. Let go.

I spent quite a bit of time with my therapist using exposure therapy to work on a traumatic event. I can confidently say it worked, and I don't mean to avoid it now. But it's not the most relevant moment for me right now, and I don't want to distract with it.  The point is that I've done it, at least some of it. And I see the value in it. And I know it works. So, as scary as it is, exposure therapy is a valid step in dealing with my current panic attacks.

So, in a moment of near desperation to make things better, I dug in for a moment and thought to myself: "Where does this all come from?" And there it was: originating event.

Originating Event:
to cause to come into existence, a thing that happens, especially one of importance


In all the factors that have triggered my panic lately, much of it can be traced back to some specific events. I wrote it all down and took it into therapy last week. When I finally got myself steeled to say it all out loud, I managed to read a past tense third person version of an incident. An event, one of importance, in which I was victimized by my then boyfriend.

Victimize:
to treat someone cruelly or unfairly: to make a victim [victimized; to be treated cruelly or unfairly, to be made a victim]


I read my writing out loud, in story mode, because my anxiety was far too high for "true" exposure. My therapist and I agreed that this was a beginning. Read it out loud, in story mode, until my anxiety is consistently lower. Then read it again, as first person but past tense until my anxiety is consistently lower. Etc. Steps along the way. Dealing with the anxiety. Facing down my fear. I made a beginning last week. It will take some time. I understand that. I can be patient with it. I'm trying to be patient with myself.

After reading my "story" out loud, my therapist asked me to recognize that in my story, I presented "my" side of things in a very negative light. She suggested I had blamed the victim - blamed myself. Which is what led me to consider victim blaming.

Victim Blaming:
a devaluing act that occurs when the victim of a crime or any wrong doing is held entirely or partially responsible for the harm that befell them


Have I done this, and to myself? Have I blamed myself, and in doing so, have I done more harm? These are the questions that led me down the 'definition rabbit hole' tonight.

And here's my truth: I have done this to myself. I have held myself nearly entirely responsible for the harm that I encountered. I was ensconced in a cultural idea that failure to object equals consent. I accepted that because I considered myself damaged by previous trauma, additional damage didn't matter. I believed that I should have changed things, and my failure to do so was a sign of my own weakness.

In short, I deserved the things that happened to me.

Deserve:
to merit, be qualified for, or have claim to reward or punishment


My thought process was thus: I am damaged, I merit punishment.

Further, I railed against the idea of being a victim. I had a visceral reaction to the concept. The idea of being a victim was so distasteful, I knew that I needed to address it. Victim. It's a bad word. It seems all pervasive, this victimhood.

Victim Mentality:
an acquired personality trait in which a person tends to regard him or herself as a victim of negative actions of others and to behave as if it were the case, even in the absence of clear evidence


Victim mentality. That's what I'm afraid of. I'm afraid that I'm playing at being powerless. That I'm hinting at needing pity. That I'm failing to take responsibility for myself.

... but what if there's clear evidence? ... what if, in fact, I have not acquired a personality trait but rather have actually experienced negative actions? ... what if I am actually a victim?

Victim:
a person harmed, injured, or killed as a result of a crime, accident, or other event or action


Where lies my responsibility in all this? How do I reconcile the lack of control over the situation? I don't know where it all goes from here.

And I'm circling cultural ideas, ones I've known and am coming to know. Affirmative Consent versus No Means No. Silence equates Consent. Relationships give inherent Permission.

Affirmative Consent:
the knowing, voluntary, and mutual decision among all participants to engage in sexual activity


And in the midst of it, I wonder: How can we be upset over victim blaming while we still allow victims to be categorically maligned while discussing victim mentality?


Here is another truth I've found tonight:
I am a victim.
I do not possess a victim mentality.
I have blamed myself, and allowed other to blame me.
I will not blame myself any longer.

Taken Over

I've been having panic attacks the last few nights,
Just as I begin to settle into the idea of going to bed.
I'm not sure of the cause, though I have a few suspicions.

It's almost as if my brain simply wants to deny the idea of sleep.
The necessity.

So I go on up to the bedroom, and I take my medicine as it's prescribed, And I breathe deeply until I it feels like my whole body is going to fly apart
And at some point I fall asleep.
Then I begin to dream.

It's never pleasant.
Sometimes I make friends, good friends, friends who fill in a puzzle piece to my life
And when I wake up, I am hurt -
Deeply hurt -
By their absence.

Then there are the people who die.
In my dreams I call for them
In the morning I cry for them,
But quietly, because they're not gone and it's not a grief I am entitled to.

I can't explain why my brain is so intent on denying rest,
Why I panic at midnight
And only want to sleep in daylight

So when I take my  handful of pills for all the other ailments, I take one to sleep, too,
As if somehow this will fix everything
But I'm breaking more every day.

Unknown

I cried in the shower today but held it all in
Swallowing my grief as though it isn't mine to express
And since then I've been trying my best to ignore the terrible feeling in my middle;
The way sadness and fear and despair knot your gut into a physical undeniable breath stealing pain.
I would tell you  how I understand,
And I keep silent, swallowing secret tears, because I know you won't look past my face.

Summer Bones

The heat of Summer has settled over our shoulders.
Long days and blue skies occasionally interrupted by crashing thunder
Herald such fantastical stories of pool visits, lightening bug hunting, the pervasive smell of sunscreen and bugspray.

We've been buffeted by the weather for so long now, we are weary.
The sun reaches deep into our bones and offers sanctuary.
The Winter is far away now - the balanced moment of so far behind and so far ahead.

And yet this season, too, will march on by and bring us something new
So we are a little afraid and a little excited and for now just looking to rest.

Two Thoughts

Two Thoughts





I saw something beautiful and was overcome, so much so
That I had to turn away to compose myself.
I turned too far by mistake and we never met again.







I saw something ugly and was dismayed, so much so
That my gut wrenched in a visceral twist.
I was left breathless and huddled on the floor.

Walls

Living outside the wall was harder than she expected. Inside the wall, she had been lonely but outside the wall she was alone. She was shocked to discover that earthquakes were happening outside the wall, too, and she began to wonder about her decisions.  

Outside the wall, she had no practice at making friends, and so her loneliness compounded.

She walked through the crack in the wall to be free, and she often felt her freedom came at too high a cost.

Over years, she learned how to move forward. Over years, she learned how to collect friends. Over years, she learned how to ride through the earthquakes around her so they didn’t rattle her bones.

When she was a child in the lonely house, all she dreamed of was being happy. She wanted to write an ever after story, with no more walls and no more hiding. Instead, she found that sometimes she has to go back into the valley. Sometimes, the loneliness is crushing. Sometimes all the bone rattling from before hurts again. Sometimes she still hides and sometimes she still dreams.

But mostly, she just tries her very best to live outside the walls, ever after.

A Biography

I went to a good school with a good curriculum, led by good teachers.

I dated boys who used me up until I couldn’t shower off the shame.

I went to a good college with an interesting program and a kind academic counselor.

I watched my mother die slowly of cancer driven starvation until her morphine addiction ran the schedules and she just stopped breathing.

I got a good promotion, allowing me to work just one job to pay the bills.

I went away on business and came home to an empty bank account, and empty house, and an empty life.

I walked to the middle of the bridge and fantasized about jumping.

I opened the door to a friend who had driven seven hours to insist I get help.

My story is long, it is complex, it is more than I can explain into late nights and whiskey sours.

My story is truth and secrets and not fully known even to myself.

I don’t presume to understand anyone else’s story.

I used to write poetry;

Now I throw words up onto a page and hate the result;

I thought I had let go of these self destructive perceptions.

Bits. Dreams.

Sometimes I dream the most fantastical things until

I wake up like Dorothy,

You were there, and you were there

Though each of you were such wonderful versions of

yourselves,

Until the beauty is washed away under the showerhead

And the wonder is undermined by breakfast

And the story I try to hold onto disintegrates in the light

like frail antique paper,

Pieces blown out of my hands and lost.

Do, To

This morning I dreamt I lived in a kitchen with laundry machines instead of cabinets, a

Subtle reminder of the piles of clothes waiting for me to tend to them.

I dreamt of neighbors who are leaving dropping in to say goodbye and

Then locking the doors behind them so I have to crawl through the window

To let the dog out.

I dreamt of friends who want to be here but don’t know where to put their dishes,

On top of the washer or dryer?

And unsurprisingly after waking from this dream I was so very angry

By all the nagging worries and

Life/living/loving concerns and

Anger makes me hateful.

I was so overcome that I didn’t know how to walk away or through it all

So the kids watched TV while I muttered into my coffee and around my bagel

Typing an angry email and silently judging the people in the news.

But I still haven’t started the laundry, or bought milk, or balanced the checkbook.

Summertime Vacations

I only let the sun get me once and since I referred to myself

as tomato red I can’t hold it against them for using it repeatedly.

I didn’t sleep well, or remember to take my medicine all the time,

and I coated myself in bug spray-

The good stuff, the chemical spray can spray or the mosquitos

would have made me crazy.

And on the last day the dust was making me cough, and I’d

been too long without coffee, and

Other people’s children were pushing my limits.

But I’ll do it again next year, swearing I’ll remember the sunscreen

and to take my medicine and this time some citronella torches

and drink more coffee and other people’s children will probably

still make me crazy

But we all know these things are just how it goes sometimes

And since you want to go with me again,

I’ll go with you.

(And)

I wish I could tell you how hard it was to

Get out of bed

Walk across the room

Take a shower

Start the coffee.

I wish there was a reason that sometimes

Everything hurts

There’s not enough air.

I wish I could deal with these days

Without feeling guilty for my weakness or

Hate for myself.

I wish I could tell you that it’s all physical

Or all emotional and

I know how to fix it and

Am fixing it every day.

Retribution

And then she was standing there, facing the wall and looking over it, blinking. She could see the ladies in the their finery standing tall, corseted waists and billowing skirts. They dwarfed her by an an unreasoning fraction. She stared, not knowing what to think. She started towards them, walking along the wall, dodging holy men at their morning prayers, blinking salt water from her eyes. She was met by a tall gentleman. He talked at her, taking her arm, muttering something about miracles. As his voice rebounded in her brain the ladies winked out of view. Standing in their pace were tall ships and small - the harbor docks. She stepped along with the captain at her elbow, on to his deck, turning when she heard her name called joyously.

They were standing on the ship's deck, surveying the water that had nearly claimed them, when the malevolence around them became clear. People stood, singly or in pairs, wet or stunned, staring at the grave of their mates. Blinded by grief, they had been too slow to recognize danger. The captain was not sanctuary. Rather, he was the worst kind of opportunist. He was using them to try to find the rest under the water, to plunder the wealth of their grave.  Grief and fury rose in her, stealing the warmth of the sun from her back. Rooted forever in power, she reached out to stop the vessel.

Vessel and persons began to sink under the waves. The caress of the cold water lulled each of them in turn.

Three Parts

i.
I have loved. Hated. Stoked the fire of righteousness.
Let go of the flames of consummate feelings
And become a shell.

ii.
I ghost in and out of my own life like a backdoor relative,
An owl taking wing,
A shadow along the wall.

iii.
Where were you? I wondered.
Not near me.