of dreams

It's been five mornings in a row that I've woken from nightmares.

My father murders someone that I love. This boy leaves me a voicemail as he dies, telling me of my father's betrayal. I sit terrified in my room, waiting for my father to come home. I'm trying to dial 911 with shaking fingers, but I keep getting the numbers wrong. 

My mother dies. I am sweeping the floor when I suddenly realize that she is gone. I will never see her again. All the words unsaid pile on top of each other until I break from the weight of them. I hide myself in her closet, sobbing as I run my fingers across her dresses. 

I am running up and down endless hills that are crawling with bears and mountain lions. I just have to get to the top of the hill. If I can get to the very top, I'll be safe. But with each peak, there is another valley, and I am gasping for breath.

The Mr. dies. Years after his death, I attempt to go on a date. That's when I realize that no one will ever know me like he did. I sit at a table across from a very nice, attractive man and realize that I have no idea how to talk to him. What do I say? Do I tell him the truth about me? Do I hide it? He won't know how to read my expressions. He can't gauge my emotion with a single glance. He doesn't understand the tangled mess that I carry with me everywhere. I break down in sobs before our food even comes and flee the restaurant.

These are just pieces. Vivid, broken fragments of dream that I remember. I've woken crying. I've woken in a terrified jolt. I've woken crippled by anxious dread. 

Sleep used to be an escape.

....

New Year's Eve is approaching. 

Facebook gathers your most popular posts and photos and compiles them into something called your year in review. 

Mine is full of silly posts and pictures. There is my new job. The return of one of my best friends from overseas. A vacation with some of my favorite people. Then right in the middle there is this post:

"Home is such a beautiful place to be."

I wrote that after spending 8 days in a psychiatric ward, but only a handful of people knew what I meant.

The rest continues in the same manner. Silly posts and pictures. There is no trace of the suicidal, depressed girl who one day sliced up her arms and legs with scissors.

It's difficult for me to look at it. My year in review is just sugary sweet frosting hiding the truth.

I turned twenty-six on the fifth of January. After my party, I sat on the kitchen floor in the dark and sobbed because I just wanted to die.

My weight dropped and dropped. I lost 40 lbs, but it was never enough. It is never enough. I cried every day on the way home from work. I thought about driving off bridges. I thought about stepping in front of semis. I thought about taking all the pills in the house. I thought about cutting my wrists.

I started getting drunk almost every night so I wouldn't think about food.

My smile started cracking. It took all of my energy to go to my new job every day and pretend I was fine.

And then the day came when I couldn't do it anymore.

So I spent 8 days in a locked ward on the 8th floor of a hospital.

Life could never be the same again. 

There are good things. There are wonderful things. The Mr.'s unwavering love. My friends' constant support. 

But there are hard things. Appointments. Meal plans. Diagnoses. More appointments. Meds. Med changes. Med side effects. Talking, talking, talking. 

Pity.

I want to pick and choose the things I can change. I want to feel in control of my own life. I am fighting, but sometimes I'm not sure which side I'm fighting on. 

Every day, I hear her. Just a little bit more. Just a little bit more...

I have no idea what 2014 will bring. In many ways, I am just as terrified as my twenty-six year old self. But I have something I didn't have before, something new.

Hope.

and a very happy christmas to you

It is Christmas Eve, and I wake up in a cold sweat.

My mother died. She was dead. She died in my dream, and I was sad.

I am alone in our bed. The Mr. is at work until noon. I sit up and try to orient myself. It is Christmas Eve. The Mr. is at work. My mother is not dead.

I am groggy as I stumble down the stairs and into the shower. Under the hot water, I stare numbly at the tile for too long, and when I finally get out and look at a clock, I swear. I don't have time to find my heaviest outfit. I'm already running late.

It's Christmas Eve and Christmas music is playing cheerily on the radio in my car as I drive. I pull into the coffee shop drive through and order a soy latte, two splendas. Then I cross the road and park.

The office building is deserted, but Christmas lights twinkle behind closed blinds. I push the elevator button because no one is around to see me, and I don't mind waiting. I hear the gears rumbling around for what seems like ages before the doors finally open. A rail thin teenage boy emerges and pushes abruptly past me. He doesn't look back.

The back wall of the elevator is one giant mirror. As usual, I scrutinize my legs and wonder why on earth a treatment center for eating disorders would have such a mirror in the elevator.

The waiting room is full of various couches surrounding coffee tables covered in puzzle pieces. I sit down at the Van Gogh puzzle and try to find a missing piece of yellow sky. I try a hundred pieces, but I can't find the right one. I can't stop thinking about how my dream self fell apart when my mother died.

My dietitian calls me in, and I try not to look guilty. It's been, what? Three weeks?

"How are you?" She says.

"Great!" I say with fake cheerfulness.

"I talked to Molly. I hear you tried pasta?"

I have a second of panic. Did Molly tell her that I ate pasta so she wouldn't know how much I really weighed? Did I tell Molly that? I can't remember. My mind is foggy with lingering grief from a dream.

"Oh yeah..." I manage lamely.

"And how was that? How did you feel about it?"

I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

It's Christmas Eve, and I sit in my dietitian's office and talk about how I felt eating pasta. Then I have to talk about how I felt about eating pizza last night. She asks how many pieces I ate.

"One." I say.

I ate four.

"They were square cut." I add quickly. I'm not sure if I'm trying to justify my decisions to her or myself.

She nods and scribbles on her notepad, and I think for the millionth time that this is ridiculous.

She asks if I ate anything else afterwards.

"No." I say.

I ate candy afterwards.

I don't know why I'm lying.

Yes I do. It's shame.

She takes my weight. I step off the scale and put my boots back in, watching as she silently writes the numbers down where I can't see.

"What was my weight?" I finally ask, irritated.

She hesitates, her disapproval obvious. "107. So it's down."

I try to look repentant, but I walk out smiling.

...

It's Christmas Day, and I wake up in the early hours of the morning. I haven't been this excited about Christmas in a very long time. I lay awake, giddy, until I finally wake the Mr. up at a semi-reasonable time. We spend the morning opening gifts, drinking coffee, and eating the cinnamon roll pancakes I made. I told the dietitian I'd only eat one.

I eat two.

We Skype with my family to open our gifts from them. My mother bought me a navy blue peacoat I wanted. I put it on, and it fits perfectly. I model it for them, and I am pleased at how thin I look. I hope my mother notices. I hope she sees.

The Mr. and I brave the snowy outside world to go for a walk. Everything is quiet. The kind of muffled, subdued quiet that snow brings. The only noise is the monotonous scraping of a neighbor shoveling his sidewalk. We are quiet too, both lost in our thoughts of home. I know he's homesick before he says it. He misses his family every day, but holidays are the hardest. I miss them too, but they live fifteen minutes from my family. And my sanity is already fragile.

By the time we get back, my cheeks are burning with cold and my legs are numb, but I feel good. I feel alive. I feel free to eat Christmas candy, and so I do.

For dinner we have an assortment of fancy cheese and wine. It is two glasses of wine later that I end up sitting completely clothed in the dry bathtub and crying.

The Mr. finds me and simply climbs right in next to me. There is a myriad of explanations I could give. I ate so much food today. I miss being with his family. I hate myself because I'm so horribly fat. I dreamed that my mother died, and I was sobbing...

Instead I tell him that I looked up information on adopting a child and how I found out that they check your mental health records. 

Which makes perfect sense. They don't want mentally unstable people adopting a child. 

Mentally unstable people like me.

So I sit in the bathtub and cry because I can't adopt a little girl from Thailand and save her from being sold into prostitution and I probably wouldn't be a good mother anyways because I'd probably turn into my mother and I'm getting old and I don't want to be an old mother and I keep finding myself picturing a baby with the Mr.'s blue eyes and curly hair and I'm afraid I'll never get to meet that baby...

The Mr. just rubs my back and calmly says all the right things. This is not the first time I've had a breakdown in the bathtub, and we both know it probably won't be the last.

...

It's just past midnight. Christmas is officially over, but I am still awake. There were too many words in my head for sleep. 

There are five days left in 2013. I have eleven days left to be twenty-six. 

I started this blog in January of this year, and it became a chronicle of my spiral down, down, down. I'm not sure if I've hit rock bottom or if I have further to fall. Am I moving upwards or downwards still? I don't know. 

All I know is that I can not wait to leave this year behind.

So Merry Christmas one hour too late, and thank you. Some of you know me and most of you don't. But all of you have helped me struggle through the worst year of my life. And I could never thank you enough for that. 

It's the day after Christmas, and I am still alive. 

sugar cookies

It started with sugar cookies.

Some of my happiest memories are of baking sugar cookies. We always made a huge batch right before Christmas. Our entire table would be covered in flour and cookie cutters and a million different sprinkles and bowls of different colored frosting. All four of us kids would be sitting at the table, sticky with frosting and giggling. I didn't even like sugar cookies, but I loved making them because it made my mother so happy. I loved watching her decorate the cookies. Her thin hands moved so carefully, so confidently. She would smile as she piped frosting in her beautiful calligraphy. Her cookies looked like something out of a magazine. They were so delicate. I would try so hard to mimic her movements, but mine became sloppy red and green candy canes and smudged Christmas trees with uneven sprinkle ornaments.

I never minded though. She was happy.

This morning I turned on some Christmas music. I cleaned the kitchen. I addressed the last of my Christmas cards. I even ate lunch.

And I felt so normal.

So I decided to make sugar cookies.

Halfway through, I just stopped.

I was standing in my kitchen. The Mr. was upstairs. I could hear him humming, but I was suddenly struggling to breathe under the crushing knowledge that I was so alone.

I tried to reason with myself. I wasn't alone. I knew that. The Mr. was just one floor above me. Sure, my siblings had all traveled the thousand something miles to my parent's house for Christmas, but they weren't gone. Yes, my best friends were all out of town, but they weren't gone either.

I couldn't understand it then, and I still don't now. I didn't just feel it, I knew that I was completely and utterly alone. It was like the floor had dropped out from under me. Everything had inverted. I was upside down.

I was curled up on the couch, unfinished sugar cookies covering the kitchen table, when the Mr. came downstairs. He looked at me, then at the table, and I could see him trying to put the pieces together.

"I'm tired." I said.

He offered to make the frosting, and I let him. I watched him measure the sugar and the milk and debated throwing the entire batch of cookies into the trash. Instead we frosted them together, and I smiled and laughed to keep from crying.

Until I couldn't anymore, and then I just cried.

So the Mr. held me as I cried, the table still a disaster of brightly colored frosting and rogue sprinkles and a million different bowls.

"You were so happy earlier." The Mr. finally whispered.

He didn't make it a question, but I knew it was one anyways. What happened? I was happy earlier. I was almost convinced that I was normal.

Then I made sugar cookies.

of flattery

"You look good in pictures. You're very photogenic. Well, you're really thin. You know they say the camera adds ten pounds. In your case it's a good thing. You know most actresses are so skinny. You see them on the screen and you think they look good, but then you see them in person and they're skin and bones. They look sick..."

I am still smiling, but my mind has frozen.

You're really thin.

The camera adds ten pounds.

In your case it's a good thing.

"...almost like they're dying, you know?" My client is still talking, smiling good-naturedly. I am nodding along.

Skin and bones.

A good thing.

He makes a face like he's eaten a piece of moldy bread. "Like they're in fucking chemo or something."

I can't tell if he's trying to tell me I look like one of those actresses.

I am more flattered than insulted. 

something like cheating

"That's good! That's really good!"

Molly was beaming at me from her computer chair, but I couldn't really bring myself to smile back. She'd asked me about my weekend, so I'd told her. I told her about all the things I ate. Things I haven't eaten in a long time. Things like pasta and bread and hot dogs and macaroni and cheese. I knew Molly saw this as a breakthrough, but more truthfully it was something like cheating.

This week came with the doctor and dietitian appointments I'd finally scheduled. I stacked them on the same day, hoping it would ease my anxiety. My weight has continued to slowly drop, and I knew things would get ugly if those numbers showed up on their scale.

So I did something I have never done before.

I ate with the intention of gaining weight.

I ate with the intention of gaining weight.

But...

And there's always a "but," isn't there?

But I promised myself I was not going to keep it. And maybe that's bad. Maybe that's the opposite of everything I'm supposed to be doing. But that promise is the only thing keeping me from losing my shit. It's why I only slammed my arm into the doorframe once. 

So I'm just gonna keep holding onto it.

Monday night, I was so full and bloated and miserable that I skipped dinner. I was sure I'd done enough. I was sure I'd gained twenty pounds. 

Tuesday morning, the scale read one pound above my lowest weight. One pound. One fucking pound.

This is where I found myself searching my closet for the heaviest sweaters I owned. It'd come to this. What was I going to do next? Sew weights into my pockets? Fuck.

I layered like I was about to journey to Antarctica on foot. At work, I let my boss buy me beef noodle soup for lunch. I ate the whole thing. And then I ate a piece of bread. And then I ate a cookie. I tackled food like it was the bar exam, and I hated my dietitian and the doctor and the treatment center and pretty much everyone with each bite.

It was after lunch that I got the voicemail. My appointment with the dietitian had been cancelled. I was horrified, then furious. I'd been preparing for this. They couldn't just cancel things!

At least I still had the doctor appointment. At least I hadn't gained weight for nothing. At least I didn't have to talk about fucking meal plans. 

At my appointment, the nurse took my weight and hid it beneath a yellow post-it note as she always does. And I hated that she did it, just like I always do. My anxiety mounted. The nurse tried to talk about my shoes. I did not want to talk about my shoes. The doctor finally came in. She wanted to talk about how I felt. I did not want to talk about how I felt. So I smiled. I said I was great. I said I was eating more. I said I wasn't restricting as much. 

Finally she got to my weight.

"I am slightly concerned because you've lost one and a half pounds since I last saw you..." She said, flipping through her notes.

I did some frantic math in my head. I hadn't gained enough. Slightly concerned? What would slightly concerned get me?

"I guess it has been a month." She finally concluded. "And you were just recently sick. So you're probably still coming back from that."

I breathed out.

"Probably." I lied.

....

There have been a lot of wonderful, encouraging comments on my blog lately that frankly I do not deserve. I'm sorry I haven't been responding lately. I do appreciate them so very much, I just haven't been able to wrap my head around saying anything back. So please know I am thankful and sorry and I will try to do better.

lies

There is a point when numbers lose all meaning and reflections lie. 

I watch the numbers go down on the scale. My new jeans slide down on my hips. I am swimming in last winter's clothes. But when I look in the mirror, nothing has changed.

I hear a lot about intensive treatment these days. I find myself thinking of ways to lie. 

...

My little sister is beaming. She looks so beautiful, so radiant. She runs her hands down the ivory lace and glances over at us. 

"I think this is the one." She whispers, and then she laughs because she can hardly believe it.

Her friends agree and I do too.

She twirls and giggles and hops, clapping her hands. "This is my wedding dress!"

Her friends laugh and cheer, but I am trying not to cry.

She is so beautiful.

I remember her as a toddler. Her bossy little voice was so raspy. Her strawberry blond hair stuck out at every angle. Even then she was fearless and always smiling. 

I am suddenly exhausted. There is a flurry with measuring tapes and shoes and veils and everything is so loud. I end up face to face with my mother thanks to the power of technology. I try to screen her comments, but I soon realize it's a pointless battle. All the noise drowns her out. I can tell she is offended that no one is listening to her. Everyone else is talking over her. She wanted my sister to go shopping with her. Instead she went shopping with me. My mother presses her lips together and frowns. My face on the screen looks worn, dark circles under my eyes.

"Are you going to cry?" One of my sister's friends teases. 

"I don't cry in public." My sister flippantly declares. Her friends snort so she rolls her eyes in a perfect imitation of our mother. "Fine. Unless I'm at a soccer game..."

Sidelong glances are thrown my way. I smile dumbly and pretend I don't know they're talking about when my sister got the call that I was in the hospital. 

I drive home too fast and go to bed without eating supper. The Mr. wants to know what's wrong. I don't know. I am happy for my sister. I truly am. I will be her matron of honor in her wedding. Her dress is perfect. She is in love.

I don't know why I'm so sad.

i am fine

It is the coldest December I can remember.

I cough as I scrape the layers of ice off my car in the morning. The air is so cold that there is no moisture left in it. It rushes into my lungs, dry and crackly. It creeps through my many layers, past the long underwear I wear beneath my jeans, and into my bones. My elderly neighbor is painstakingly shoveling her sidewalk, her entire face wrapped in a scarf. We are both silent, slowly growing more and more hunched as the cold weighs down on us, but we continue on. Her with her shoveling. Me with my scraping. There is nothing else we can do. 

"I am struggling with depression...again...still." Bill texts me. He is living in a city shelter now, despite a handful of grand plans to move across the city, across the country, across the ocean. 

I can't escape it either, and I tell him so. The beauty of his response catches me off guard. 

"We are caught between two worlds."

I am here. I am not here.

"I feel like you're slipping away." The Mr. whispers in the dark. I roll over and wrap my arms around him, trying to be reassuring. But that's not what he wants. He wants me to talk to him. 

"I never have anything new to say." I tell him.

I'm not even sure if that's true. I am standing in a corner, facing the wall, as my thoughts clamor behind me. Sometimes I steal a glance. I try to focus. How do I feel? What am I thinking? But the words never reach my mouth. They just loop round and round in my head. 

I get a voicemail from the psychiatry clinic. They have decided to increase my anti-depressant. Again.

In the news a college girl gets dropped off at her house after a party. Drunk, she stumbles up to her porch only to find the door locked. She falls asleep there on the porch as the temperature drops lower and lower and lower. By the time they find her, her hands have frozen solid to the wood. She will wake up to discover both her hands simply gone.

Worried faces blur until they mean nothing. Everything seems to be in hyperbole. Everyone is telling me my hands are gone, but I am looking right at them. They are right here. I am wiggling my fingers. I am clenching my fists. There is nothing wrong with me.

I am fine. 

just close your eyes

Close your eyes. Just close your eyes and everything will go away.

I remember summer nights in the mountains. The cold air creeping down from the peaks. We would run and scream and laugh in the dusk until our bare feet grew numb. We were wild things then, so removed from everything in our little house on the hill. We ran silently through the woods and lived off wild strawberries. The outdoors was our world until the night fell and we were forced to retreat inside the safety of four walls. Monsters walked the woods at night, but there were monsters inside too.

I remember stumbling drowsily through the foggy mornings to press a tired cheek against the scratchy warmth of a goat, the silence broken only by the sounds of contented chewing and the rhythmic streams of milk against the metal pail. Buckets of oats. Armfuls of hay. Walking back to the ramshackle house, the frothy milk steaming in the dim light of the sunrise. Chickens clucking in offense at our cold hands disturbing their nests, searching for brown eggs, green eggs, little tiny speckled eggs.

I remember the screaming. I remember the way her arms furiously sliced through the air. I remember the words that fell like shrapnel.

I remember standing alone on the playground, watching the other girls run away from me, squealing. I remember standing in front of my dresser and surveying my clothing choices in hopeless despair. I remember the snide remarks that followed me down the halls of our small church.

"Nice shoes. Your feet have gotten really big, haven't they?"

"Are you going to wear that dress every Sunday?"

I remember pretending.

...

Just close your eyes.

I am letting things slip through my fingers. I am slowly side-stepping into the shadows and hoping no one will notice. 

I didn't make an appointment with my dietitian last week. I haven't made one for this week yet either. I haven't re-scheduled my appointment with the treatment center doctor. I let the calls go to voicemail. I delete the messages and pretend they never existed.

"I'm sorry I'm late." I tell the psychiatric nurse. It is early on a bitterly cold Monday, and I have spent the last forty-five minutes battling icy roads and nervous drivers. Anxiety has my teeth on edge. I hate being late to appointments.

"It's fine." He says, but his feathers are ruffled. "I was late this morning too."

He looks at the clock, irritation in the crease between his eyes. I sink deeper into my chair, pulling my giant parka closer and hoping I might disappear into it.

He asks all the same questions, and I give all the same answers. 

He glances at the clock again. It is 9:05 am. "I have an another appointment scheduled at 9." He tells me, annoyance lurking in his professional voice. "And another at 9:30. I'm booked solid all day."

I am submerged in both guilt and resentment, so I stay silent. 

"How's your appetite?" He asks briskly.

"I think it's fine." I answer shortly.

He doesn't hesitate. "What does your dietitian think?"

I think about lying, but I'm worn thin. "She thinks I'm not eating enough." 

It comes out like a challenge. I am tired of these people telling me what is right and what is wrong and how much is enough and how much is too little.

He launches into a lecture about the importance of breakfast, and I stop listening.

Later, I sit outside the pharmacy, waiting for my prescription to be filled. I watch the people shuffle by, swallowed under giant coats and knit hats. A woman catches my eye, and I start. I'm certain it's my frail roommate from the psychiatric ward. I almost call out to her, but she turns, and I am suddenly uncertain. So I sip my scalding coffee instead.

...

The sun has set. Another day has come and go, and I still have not managed to pick up the phone. 

Just close your eyes. Close your eyes and everything will go away.

something like an awakening

Thursday started like most Thursdays do.

I got up. I took my pills. I showered. Got dressed and went to work.

I even packed a lunch. 1 oz. of cheese and 1 oz. of summer sausage and 2 medium carrots.

But it wasn't really a normal Thursday. For starters, I had an appointment with the treatment center doctor that afternoon. In a panic about said appointment, I'd taken laxatives the night before.

I weighed in at 105.8 lbs that morning, and I felt happy and then frantic.

Because I know that if the doctor sees more weight loss, I'm going to get pushed into more intensive treatment.

That's why I packed the lunch.

I was making more trips to the bathroom than normal, and they weren't very pleasant, but I was certain that was just the laxatives. Around noon, I started feeling sick to my stomach. I figured I should try eating something, so I ate a handful of almonds. Then I ate my cheese and summer sausage, but it didn't go away.

About an hour later, I suddenly realized, I AM GOING TO PUKE.

So I got up quickly from my desk, took two steps towards the bathroom, and a client walked in. He had some changes to a design. He was rattling them off, and I stood there frozen, not even listening. I just kept repeating DO NOT PUKE in my head. Finally he left, and I bolted towards the bathroom.

I had just grabbed the door handle when the client CAME BACK IN.

I didn't even move to go talk to him. I made him stand across the room and shout some more things at me because I was positive if I moved, I was going to throw up all over the room.

Eventually he said "ok" and I took that as my cue. I fled into the bathroom, barely getting the toilet seat up in time to lose my lunch and all the zero calorie powerade I'd been drinking.

I don't do very well with throwing up.

I cleaned myself up and walked out of the bathroom, shaking. I told my boss. I'm pretty sure I interrupted her mid sentence to blurt out "I just threw up." She told me to go home, so I did. I cancelled my appointment, and then from 2:00 pm until 11:00 pm, all I did was throw up.

I'm pretty sure I had a fever through most of it. I was half delirious and utterly miserable. It was definitely the worst flu I've had in a long time. I remember getting really panicky that I was going to become severely dehydrated because I couldn't even keep water down. I also remember laying in bed and feeling my bones sharply protruding more than ever. But it didn't make me feel happy like it normally did. Instead I just felt scared.

I wasn't sure if my body could handle a bad flu virus after everything I'd done to it.

I slept fitfully through the night, but Friday morning I woke up relieved to find that my stomach no longer hurt. Of course all my muscles still ached and walking down the stairs almost made me pass out, but at least I wasn't throwing up.

I stepped on the scale and it said 103 lbs exactly.

I felt slightly happy about that, but mostly I felt scared.

So I spent the day laying on the couch and watching old episodes of How I Met Your Mother. I ate half a sleeve of saltine crackers, a sugar free jello, and some chicken noodle soup. I felt slightly panicky about it, but mostly I felt relieved. For dinner I ate a baked potato with some butter and salt.

That night, laying in bed, my brain was spinning. I had so many contradicting emotions and thoughts flying through my head, and I couldn't focus on any single one of them. They'd asked me if I'd ever had racing thoughts at the hospital, and I'd said no. Now I'd have to say yes. It was horrible, overwhelming. It made me feel crazy. The Mr. kept trying to get me to tell him what I was thinking, and I couldn't. Not wouldn't. I physically couldn't.

So I took a pill. And I went to sleep.

And now here I am today, uncertain and conflicted. I don't know what all those emotions meant. I don't know how to interpret them. I don't know if I want to.

i am too old for temper tantrums, but i wrote this anyways

I remember as a child curiously examining the shed skin of a snake. It was almost beautiful, thin and papery. It crumbled beneath my fingers.

I am scrolling through Facebook, Pinterest, Twitter, and I'm suddenly angry at people I hardly even know. I feel like I'm being bombarded. So I click viciously through them. Unfollow. Unfollow. Unfollow. I can't stand another second of seeing their lives, their thoughts, their advice.

"There’s no point in constantly worrying about everything. What will happen will happen anyways. So breathe, look on the bright side, have some laughs, fall in love, accept what you can’t change, and carry on. To actually live is courageous. Most people exist, that is all."

I am not encouraged or uplifted or enlightened. Just angry.

UNFOLLOW.

I am tired.

I am tired.

I am tired.

Everything is too big. Too much. And I don't want it to be fixed. I just want to be angry. I want to stomp my feet and scream like a toddler. I want to crawl under the covers and stay there, real life be damned. I want to cancel all of my appointments and never see another doctor or therapist or psychiatrist or dietitian again.

I have a pill for this, but instead of taking it, I'm just really fucking irritated that I have pills for this.

I miss having secrets.

I miss having everything contained.

I miss my freedom to make my own plans.

I wish I could shed my skin and leave it behind, but I'm trapped in it.

So instead I'm just angry.

she has come undone

Miles of internet, and this drawing stops me like a slap in the face.

The title is simply "She Has Come Undone." 

....

I spend Thanksgiving night on the bathroom floor with my little sister as she sobs out all the pain she can't hold back any longer. She is at once terrified for me and jealous of me. She thinks I am too skinny, but she thinks she is too fat. She wants me to get better. She wants to be like me. 

She is sad. 

I hold her and try to say the right things, but words just fall out of my mouth in a jumbled mess. I can't protect her. We are all broken, and I am barely holding myself together. 

....

I keep dreaming about the psychiatric ward. I am there again, surrounded by those familiar concrete walls and blue scrubs, but I'm so angry because I don't belong there! I don't want to be there! It was not my choice. There's nothing wrong with me!

I am causing a scene. A nurse tells me I must take these pills. I don't want to take the pills. There's nothing wrong with me! Why can't anybody see that?

They tell me I'll be moved to a more intensive wing if I don't calm down and take the pills. I am afraid of the intensive wing, so I sullenly take the paper cup. I am going to take them. I am going to give in, but I overhear the nurse make a comment. Something implying that I am finally doing the right thing. 

I stiffen. No. No, she's wrong. I remember again. Nothing is right here, and I am furious. So I throw the little paper cup as hard as I can. Pills go scattering across the worn linoleum and I am screaming and screaming and screaming as they tackle me and strap me down.

....

I finally manage to cry while sober for the first time in two months, one week, and six days.

Of all the deeply emotional moments during that time, I am undone by the death of a character in a mediocre tv show.

I am afraid to hope that my drug addled brain chemistry is finally clicking back together.

....

I eat like my dietitian wants, but I wash the food down with laxatives. The little blue pills have a sweet coating. They almost taste like candy as I swallow them down so I can continue to convince myself that I am ok. 

Drawing found at: http://beazart.com/

in which I get homework to show me i'm crazy

I've quickly learned that when you go to treatment, but don't really show any desire to change, they start throwing frightening words around.

I haven't quite figured out if this is a trick or a ploy, but I'm equally unsure if I want to find out.

I've heard this word three times from three different people and every time it deafens me with panic.

INTENSIVE.

It's a horrible, loud, sterile, ugly word. It makes me want to run away.

"Why do you keep shutting down the idea of intensive care?" Molly asked me earlier today.

Therapy is full of stupid questions.

"Because I still don't think I even need this." I made a random gesture around the small room, particularly at the bookshelf full of titles like Body Betrayed. The more treatment I attend, the more convinced I've become that I am FINE.

That's when she gave me a sheet of paper titled "Classic Cognitive Distortions."

What is a cognitive distortion? Well according to psychcentral.com, it is "simply ways that our mind convinces us of something that isn’t really true."

Which is a nice way of saying "you are a crazy person."

So for homework, I am supposed to come up with personal examples for these classic cognitive distortions. I get bonus points if I relate these things to my so called eating disorder.

Great.

1. All or Nothing Thinking
You think of things in "black-or-white" or rigid categories. If something is less than perfect,  you see it as a total failure.

Alright, fine. Sure. Today I ate a serving of almonds for lunch and celery and some summer sausage for dinner. But I also ate some licorice. And that ruined everything. Today was a failure. I am a failure. Isn't this fun?

2. Over Generalizing
You think of a single negative event as a never-ending pattern.

I screw up a job at work. I lock myself in the bathroom and stare at my reflection, jaw clenched to keep from screaming. I fucked up. I am a horrible person. I should get fired. I ruin everything. I should just kill myself.

I eat three square meals. I pace my bedroom, panicking because I am now going to gain a hundred pounds and be fat for the rest of my life and I might as well die.

3. Mental Filtering
You dwell on a single negative detail and ignore moderate or positive things that may occur.

Can I just answer this one with: MY ENTIRE LIFE?

4. Disqualifying the Positive
You reject positive experiences ("they don't count"). You maintain a negative view in spite of contradictory evidence.

I lose weight. People say I look skinny. I look in the mirror and decide they're the crazy ones.

5. Jumping to Conclusions
a). Mind Reading: You arbitrarily conclude that someone is reacting negatively to you, and don't bother to check this out with them. 
b). Fortune Telling: You anticipate that things will turn out badly and feel convinced that your prediction is a fact. 

Every time someone whispers to someone nearby me, I'm certain they're talking about me. And not nicely. It doesn't matter if it's a stranger in the mall or a friend at a party. I hang out with friends and leave certain that half of them are mad at me.

I see someone glance at my plate. I am sure they are disgusted by how much I'm eating and how fat I am.

I turn down a lot of invitations from friends I don't see often because I'm sure they actually hate me because I never hang out with them.

I am certain I will hate my dietitian.

6. Catastrophizing
You believe the worst-case scenario will happen.

The Mr. is late coming home from work. I'm positive he's gotten in a car accident and died.

I go into intensive treatment. I lose my job. We can't pay our bills. We lose our house. We starve on the streets and die.

Too much chocolate = I am going to become disgustingly obese.
Too much celery = I am going to become disgustingly obese.

7. Magnifying or Minimizing
You exaggerate the importance of certain things (such as your mistakes or other's successes) and minimize other things (such as your own desirable qualities or other's imperfections).

I am a failure of a human being who has accomplished absolutely nothing. THIS person is working at one of the top design agencies in the city and becoming recognized for their work. THIS person is traveling the world and having adventures. THIS person is helping people in third world countries. I am worthless. THAT person has no flaws.

8. Emotional Reasoning
You assume that they way you feel reflects the way things are.

I am fat.
I have nothing to offer.
No one would care if I died.
Everyone hates me.

9. "Shoulds"
You believe you must live up to certain perfectionist expectations. You may have perfectionist expectations of others.

I have to be the best Aunt in the world. I have to be skinny. I have to be interesting. I have to be funny. I have to, I have to, I have to...

10. Labeling/Mislabeling
"Over-Generalizing." Instead of describing an error, you attach a negative, generalized label to yourself/others.

I am fat.
I am stupid.
I am worthless.

11. Personalization
You see yourself as responsible for the events around you that you had little/no responsibility for.

I blog about having a negative reaction to hearing my sister-in-law is pregnant again. The next day she has a miscarriage. This is my fault.

12. Maladaptive Thought
Any belief you have that is not useful to you in a given situation.

I need to be working, but I can't stop thinking about how I ate lunch when I was planning on fasting.

13. Compensatory Misconception
The believe that you need to inflate your achievements to be socially successful.

I need to make myself appear and sound like an amazing designer so the people I went to college with don't find out I'm a total failure.

I need to make people think that I'm really skinny or doing really well with restricting or exercising so they'll think I'm strong and worthy.



Sure. I had examples for all of those things. And ok, maybe I think those things every single day. But it's just the truth.

That's probably another one.

I see this. I do. I'm not stupid, but my mind has split off from my brain and what I see is not always what I believe. And if I can't trust my own head, how do I know I can trust anyone else?




"Have you thought about what will happen if you keep going down this path?" Molly asked.

"Yes." I said to the bookshelf.

"What do you think will happen?"

"I'll starve myself to death."

"How do you feel about that?"

"I don't feel anything."

I am out of sleeping pills

We were driving through the city at night. We passed a little restaurant, and I looked at the people smiling and laughing inside.

"We should go there someday." I said.

"Yeah, we should!" He smiled.

And we both pretended that I am just a normal girl who could eat a hamburger and be ok.

...

I had a doctor appointment on Friday. For once a regular, routine doctor appointment.

I debated staying silent about everything, but I knew there would be questions. Since my last routine visit, I've lost 37 lbs and gained two new medications that label me "MENTALLY ILL" in flashing neon lights.

So I had to explain what happened. I've become quite skilled at giving a cliff notes version of the past year. I can say the words easily with no emotion. I think my manner rattles people almost more than my story. I would explain to them that I can no longer cry, but it's too exhausting.

So she gave me a general exam, and once again I was declared perfectly healthy. And then my doctor innocently said this:

"You're very thin, but you're not at an unhealthy weight."

My head belongs in a carnival freak show. Disparate emotions living in harmony.

Yes! See? You're FINE! You're perfectly healthy! There's nothing wrong with you!

Fuck! See? You fat disgusting failure. You can't even get to an unhealthy weight!

...

"So, do you feel like you ever win?"

I blinked at Molly in confusion. "Win?" I repeated.

"You have this other 'voice' in your head that dictates how you eat, but do you ever feel like you fight back? Do you ever win?"

I stared at her, silent. I didn't know how to explain that I am not the good guy. I am on the other side. When she wins, so do I.

...

Every year the week before Thanksgiving, we have Friend Thanksgiving. It is my favorite holiday.

As the date grew closer, I found myself repeating the same things over and over in my head like a magic spell. Maybe if I said it enough times, it would come true.

I can do this. I love Friend Thanksgiving. I can eat food and be happy and enjoy myself.

One of my very best friends surprised us the night before. We screamed and jumped up and down and hugged, and for a brief, wonderful moment I thought I would cry.

But I didn't. 

I cooked the turkey and baked a cheesecake.

I can do this. I love Friend Thanksgiving. I can eat food and be happy and enjoy myself.

We decorated, we set the table for nineteen, we cooked and laughed and drank wine. And by the time we ate dinner, I was on a high where I actually believed I was ok. 

I'm fighting back, Molly. I'm winning.

I ate food. I was happy. I enjoyed myself. 

One of my friends surprised us all during dinner by announcing that they were pregnant. They are the first of all of us to have a baby. Everyone screamed and jumped up and down and hugged and cried, and my smile was so full of joy and pain, I was sure I would cry.

But I didn't.

Afterwards, we went to the movie theatre and saw Catching Fire. It was amazing and heartbreaking and my throat ached like I was going to cry.

But I didn't.

We hung out in our little house late into the night. Our friend was leaving in the morning to go home, and we were all delaying the inevitable. Saying goodbye to her is always so hard. So we talked and laughed and played with my cats. But eventually we had to say goodbye. I hugged her tightly and my eyes burned and I thought I would cry.

But I didn't.

They left. I went into the bathroom and gulped down laxatives. Then I turned and stared at my reflection in the mirror for a long time, all of the rich, delicious, horrifying food sitting like a brick in my stomach. I looked at the girl in the mirror and was disgusted by her. I hated her.

And I wanted to cry.

But I didn't. 

of alcohol, anxiety attacks, and ambulances

It started innocently enough.

The Mr. had band practice. One of my best friends came over. We watched a movie and drank some wine. It was fun. We were having fun.

But I was also trying to pretend that I didn't notice the undercurrent of anxiety running through me like electricity. 

So one glass of wine turned into two. Two glasses turned into three. The movie ended. The Mr. came home. My friend left. I had another glass of wine. Then another.

Five glasses of wine on an empty stomach is not advised.

I remember suddenly realizing, Shit, I think I'm going to throw up. I was in bed. I don't remember getting in bed, but that's where I was. I crawled out and sat in front of the toilet. The Mr. came over, concerned. I couldn't throw up because my phobias are often stronger than I am. I remember laying on the floor of the bathroom and trying to convince the Mr. to let me sleep there.

He wasn't having that.

He helped me up and took me back to bed. And that's when I realized I wasn't breathing right. My breaths were coming in short, sharp gasps. The more I tried to stop, the worse it got. Panic started setting in. The Mr. was growing increasingly alarmed, and I started trying to calm him down. I was trying really hard to swallow my panic so he wouldn't panic, but that's when I noticed my hands. 

My hands had curled into horrifying fists, like a twisted claw. And I couldn't unclench them. I couldn't move them at all. 

And that's when I totally lost my shit.

How many times have I written that phrase on this blog? 

I drunkenly curled up on the bed, now completely hyperventilating, stared at my motionless fists and sobbed over and over that I couldn't move my hands. The Mr., terrified that I was having a stroke, called 911.

I vaguely remember him dressing me and taking me downstairs. I curled up on the couch and stared at my hands and gasped and gasped and gasped sharp breaths.

The ambulance arrived and the EMT's joined us in my livingroom like some sort of bizarre family reunion. We sat on the couch and I sobbed dry gasps over and over. "Breathe." They told me. "You need to breathe slower. Hold your breath. You're the only one who can stop this. If you don't stop, you're going to pass out."

I heard them, but in all the chaos, I had somehow escaped my own head. I was somewhere outside of that pathetic body curled up on the couch. It was as though I was watching everything unfold like a movie. And I remember thinking, I don't care. 

Occasionally, I was jolted back when they would shake me or shove a paper bag into my hands. "Breathe into this." They would say. The Mr. was crouched in front of me, his eyes full of worry. I breathed into the bag. Once, twice, three times. "Good!" They said. "Keep going!" But I couldn't stand to be in my head, and I was gone again.

Time seemed to stretch into an eternity, the sound of my frantic wheezing breaths blended in with the voices of the people around me. My claw hands stared at me, mocking my attempts to move them.

Someone was suddenly putting shoes on my feet. The two EMT's each took one of my arms. They half carried me out the door and down the steps to a stretcher. They tucked me in as I shivered, teeth chattering through my gasps. My hyperventilating continued like a metronome. Somewhere outside of my head, I watched the lights pass by through the back window.

They wheeled me inside the Emergency Room, my gasps echoing off the walls. I remember the stares. In a small room, two nurses stripped off my shirt and dressed me in a hospital gown. "You need to breathe!" They told me sharply. 

I probably would have told them to go to hell if I could've gotten enough air.

But I couldn't get enough air, and I passed out instead.

The next thing I knew, I was propped up in a hospital bed, cords and wires trailing from my body to machines that beeped behind me, and I was talking. There was a doctor sitting next to my bed, and I was talking to him. I squinted at him in confusion. How long had I been talking to him? What the fuck? Was he even real? 

I decided I didn't really care. So I kept talking to him, hearing my voice faintly as though it were coming from a long ways off. He asked me a lot of questions. Still unsure if I was awake or dreaming, I was startlingly honest. Although I kept getting distracted by how strange my mouth felt and the glorious fact that I could move my hands again. If I was dreaming, I decided I didn't want to ever wake up.

He was very concerned that I had apparently told a nurse that I thought about hurting myself earlier in the day. I didn't remember saying that, but it was probably true, so I didn't argue. He asked about my recent hospitalization. I showed him the bruises on my arms. He asked me if I would hurt myself if they released me. I told him I was too fucking tired. 

I don't remember him leaving, but like someone had pressed a Next button, I opened my eyes and the Mr. was sitting next to me, holding my hand. He looked so relieved when I opened my eyes. I couldn't express how relieved I was to see him, so I settled for just squeezing his hand tightly.

There was a blur of nurses and doctors. Apparently I made funny faces at the Mr. whenever the nurses would turn their back. The doctors tried to ask me questions. The Mr. had to answer most of them because I was struggling to stay awake. A nurse came in and stuck a million sticky patches all over me for an EKG. Another came in and unhooked me from all the cords and wires so I could pee in a cup. Then she took a blood test.

"I'm going to insert an IV so I only have to poke you once." She told me. "I don't know if they'll hook you up to one, but just in case." 

All of me went tense with terror. An IV? How many calories would that be?

A few minutes later, after struggling to get my vein, she decided to just do the blood sample for now. I was so relieved, I didn't even mind that my whole arm was throbbing with pain.

Then we waited. The blood pressure cuff around my arm took my blood pressure all by itself every so often.  I remember trying to convince the Mr. to climb into my hospital bed with me. I dozed off and on. 

Finally the doctors came in and told me my tests came back ok. My potassium was pretty low, so they had me drink something that tasted wretched. They asked me some more questions that I answered slightly crabbily. Then we were released. It was 3:30 am.

I discarded the hospital gown, ignored the seemingly million stickers all over my body, and put my shirt back on. It was then that I realized how the Mr. had dressed me. I was wearing flannel pj bottoms that I had gotten for Christmas years ago. The words "Cabin Fever" were printed across the butt. My shirt was my X-Men t-shirt that was way too big for me. And on my feet were green ballet flats. The Mr. had rushed to the hospital in basketball shorts and a t-shirt. In November.

It was a cold walk back to the car for both of us. 

Once home, we collapsed into bed and passed out. Then I got up at 7:30 am and went to work. I would have called in, but unfortunately on Wednesdays, I am the one who has to open the shop because my boss has a networking meeting. So I dragged myself there, feeling like death warmed over. 

Thankfully I was able to leave at noon so I could get in a few hours of sleep before my dreaded second appointment with my dietitian.

By the time I arrived at that appointment, I was so exhausted I couldn't even muster the energy to hate her. I just sat and talked and answered her questions honestly. I could tell she was slightly alarmed by my story, my honest answer to what I had eaten in the last 24 hours, and my bedraggled presence. 

I told her that I was really only going to treatment to relieve other people's worry. She kept trying to get me to see that I needed it, and I was just honest. I still don't feel like I do. Then she pulled out the scare tactics. Looming heart attacks. Blood pressure problems. 

I told her I wasn't skinny enough to worry about those yet. 

She told me I was heading in that direction.

I was too tired to argue. 

We made a meal plan for tomorrow, and she assigned me the goal to eat at least two meals a day. 

Driving home, I had to admit that I needed to eat something. In the past 48 hours, I'd only had some almonds and some spinach. And five glasses of wine. I felt so weak. 

So I went home. And I ate dinner. Chicken and steamed broccoli. 

Afterwards, I felt so much better and so much worse all at the same time.

My brain tells me I can't defy science. My mind tells me I can.

I'm too tired to argue.

normal [alternately titled: i hate poetry]

normal is what normal is.

at least, that's what i thought.

how many years did it take?

more than ten.

more than twenty.

was i strong or was i weak?

i turn these pill bottles over in my hand

looking for an answer in the tiny black text

but finding none.

in my normal there is a darkness oceans deep.

there are tears shed and tears stuck

somewhere deep inside my skull.

there is light, so bright it's blinding,

and i fly

like icarus towards the sun

but both of us are doomed

and i go tumbling down again.

in my normal there is a hate

that lurks inside my ribs

quieted slightly by the bones

that slowly creep
up from under my skin.

in my normal there is worry

like a hive of wasps inside my head

they say a panic attack feels as though 

your heart has stopped.

but my heart beats and beats and beats

like a bomb.

methodical ticks.

in my normal i am in control.

until i'm not.

is it the green wire or the red?

tick. tick. tick. tick. 

better cut them all. 

they tell me that i'm wrong

these people with all these letters

trailing like ducklings after their names.

they say my normal is not normal after all

and it rolls off their tongues 

so easily.

they don't notice the thunderclap

that roars inside my head.

how do you re-define normal?

what comes after three?

is this color purple?

yellow?

red?

what is normal?

who am i?

isn't my normal

me?

so i gather up the folds of my darkness,

clutching them to my heart

and they do not understand.

why I would choose to drown

but i am lost in the darkest blue,

wasps humming in my head

i trace a cold finger along my bones

and breathe.

the malnourished ghost does not like her dietitian

Is that any surprise?

It's been a long week. A never ending week. Friday night I finally took a breath. Then I blinked and now it's Saturday night and tomorrow is Sunday and then it all starts over again.

It probably doesn't help that I spent 80% of today in bed because real life seemed like an overwhelming obstacle.

Thursday I had two appointments. At 4:00 pm I met my dietitian for the first time. At 5:00 pm I met with my therapist again.

I've been avoiding talking about it. I've been avoiding thinking about it.

I'd slipped up to 108.4 lbs. I was furious about that. New bruises darkened my arms. I knew the dietitian was going to weigh me, and I hated her for that before even meeting her.

Then I met her and...

(This is the part where I sound like a petulant, horrible person)

My dietitian is overweight.

In the crazy maze that is my head, this obviously means that she is going to try to make me overweight too. Which in turn means I can't trust anything she says about food.

Her whole face was washed in pity as I twisted my hands in my lap and reluctantly answered her questions. Yes, I know. Sad story. I'm fucked up. I know. I know. I didn't ask for her pity. I didn't want her pity. I didn't even want to be there.

But I was.

So I mumbled my answers to her questions about what I eat, how much I eat, what I won't eat, what I will eat, where I eat, if I count calories, if I exercise, if I binge, if I purge, and on and on and on.

Finally she told me it was time to take my weight. I tried not to glare at her as I stripped off as much clothing as possible while still clinging to some pride. I could tell she didn't want to let me know what the numbers were, which probably had something to do with my reluctance to step on the scale in the first place. But I persisted, and so she let me see.

110.3 lbs.

Then came the question.

How does that make you feel?

That led to a discussion where she tried to convince me that maybe I shouldn't see the numbers in the future. That discussion ended with me firmly stating (for the second time), "I WOULD RATHER KNOW."

"Ok then." She said, but her face betrayed her disapproval.

Next, she blindsided me with goals. I didn't have any goals. I didn't want to make any goals. I wanted to throw her scale through her window.

She made goals for me.

1). Eat one snack a day.
2). Eat something with the Mr. when he eats dinner.

"Do you think you can do that?" She asked, wide eyed. The sweetness in her voice made me feel sick.

I muttered something that could have been taken as an affirmation. She narrowed her eyes a tiny bit.

"Do you think you can try to do that?" She repeated.

"I guess." I said to the coffee table. She was acting like I was seconds away from death's door. I wondered if the doctor had informed her I was "malnourished." I wondered if I was the only sane one. I wondered if this was all a joke.

When I left her office, I was terribly tempted to take the stairs two at a time and escape. Instead I sat in the lobby and seethed. A skinny girl across from me was eating a giant rice krispy bar.

I popped a stick of gum in my mouth to trick my stomach into forgetting I hadn't eaten anything all day. Lot good it had done me. 110.3 lbs. As if 110.3 lbs could ever be considered malnourished.

Molly was smiling when she came around the corner to get me. I was glaring at the girl with the rice krispy bar.

Molly wanted to know how meeting with the dietitian had gone. I told her it was hard. She said she'd expected as much. She wanted to know why. I don't even remember what I said. She didn't push. She just moved on to other things.

And maybe it was because there was never pity on Molly's face, or maybe because I never felt like she was patronizing me, but suddenly words were just spilling out of my mouth. I talked. She listened. She didn't sit there and scribble notes. She just listened. And I think the biggest reason why I actually like Molly is because she is trying to get to know me. Not my eating disorder. Not my mental illness. Me.

This morning the scale said 107.4 lbs.

For the foreseeable future, I will be meeting with Molly and the dietitian every week. I still don't know when I'll start DBT.

How do I feel?

I looked up synonyms for overwhelmed because that word has begun to irritate me. And I found one that rings true.

Vanquished.

I feel vanquished. Does that sound melodramatic? Probably. Whatever. It's true. And maybe I'm not putting up much of a fight, but there doesn't really seem to be a point. I don't care. Everything is too much and I'm too tired and at this point I'm only going to treatment because I don't have the energy to put up a fight.

So I'm going back to bed where I'll pretend that tomorrow isn't Sunday.

fragments

Words fly through my head. Bits and pieces here and gone. I'm staring blankly at my computer screen trying to convince myself that I care. The phone rings. The radio plays. My boss is talking. I watch her lips moving. Noise. Noise. Noise. Am I smiling or baring my teeth? 

I want to scream.

....

I'm laying on the hard floor, staring at the bumpy white ceiling. Around me everything is silent, but the noise is still building in my head. I want to get up and smash my arms into the doorway until it stops. 

Instead I move my legs across the wood floor. Back and forth. Back and forth. 

"What are you doing?" He asks curiously from the couch.

"Making a snow angel." I say numbly.

....

I start with two sleeping pills. Then I take three. Then four. 

I wake up at four o'clock in the morning, pain stabbing through my head. 

Guess what? You're still alive.

....

How are you?

Do you want to talk?

How do you feel?

How do you feel?

How do you feel?

....

I meet Bill for tea. He's moving to Iowa in two days. The tea shop is loud. We are both swallowed up in the noise. I want to tell him that I can't cry. I haven't cried since I left the hospital. It's been two months, and I can't cry. 

But there's too much noise.

"Jasmine." He says in his soft Texas drawl. This is not my name, but it is his name for me and I don't mind. "I've missed you."

"I've missed you too." I whisper back.

He mirrors the sad smile on my own face, and we silently sip our tea as the world moves brightly around us.

....

Bruises bloom dark and loud on my pale arms. I hide them beneath long sleeves and sweaters. 

I know what people would think if they saw. 

"Did you see her arms?" They would whisper. "Do you think he's hitting her?"

Side glances. Raised eyebrows. Sickly sweet concern. 

I know the truth would sound crazy. Because I am crazy.

....

My mother keeps texting me about that damn skirt. She wants numbers. Inches.

She wants to know.

I pretend I am somewhere else, someone else. 

She finally texts the Mr. She tells him she's worried about me. I'm not responding. Is everything ok?

He reads me her message. I'm laying on the floor again.

"I don't know how many inches!" I shout at the ceiling.

He tells her I'm ok.

....

There is a strange scab on my cheekbone. I pick at it, trying to get it off. My skin starts to turn red, but I don't feel anything. It won't come off. I press harder. Blood vessels rise to the surface, tiny red pin pricks. I don't feel anything. My fingernail breaks through my skin, peeling it back. 

I don't feel anything. 

I stare at my reflection. What am I underneath this skin? What if I just peeled it all off? What would I find?

I blink, and my stomach lurches. I slam my hand down on the light switch and my reflection vanishes into the darkness.

....

We lay on the couch, curled up together as the morning sun creeps through the blinds. He breathes under my cheek, deep and even.

Everything is quiet.

I am ok.

I stare at the clock and try to will time to stand still. I am ok in this moment, this second. I am ok, and I want to keep it. I want to keep it forever. I focus on the minute hand until my eyes burn.

It ticks forward.

Guess what? You're still alive.

I am not prepared

I woke up to a cold white world this morning.

The first snow.

My breath puffed little white bursts of life into the air as I scraped the ice off my windshield. All morning long I've watched the snow drip, drip, drip off the trees outside my window. The sun is bravely shining. Everyone says the same thing. "This snow won't last."

It will come back, though. It's November. Winter is just around the corner.

I thought I would feel more prepared. 

...

I meet my therapist on a Monday night after work. Her name is Molly. She smiles easily. I am wary, curled up on her couch as though she is dangerous. Eventually her relaxed manner coaxes me to stop picking anxiously at my water bottle. 

By the time I leave, I'm surprised to realize that I like her. 

I drive home in the dark, and my surprise turns heavy. This is it, isn't it? I have still been pretending that this isn't happening. That I'm not going into treatment. 

The Mr. has a show with the band. He packs up and leaves. I pace around the house, trying to keep myself calm. But I'm not calm. I'm panicking. I'm furious. I'm terrified.

I think about sharp things, and where I would look to find them.

Cuts will leave marks I can't explain. I rationalize. Bruises will be easier to hide.

I methodically roll up my sleeve and then smash my forearms into the door frame of my closet over and over. The pain makes my eyes smart, but the pressure in my chest becomes a little more manageable. 

I finally step back and pull my sleeves down over my throbbing arms. Then I get ready for the show.

....

Tuesday finds me shivering on the examination table at the treatment center's doctor office again. 

I hadn't slept much the night before. Or really at all. The show was late. The Mr. found out about the bruises on my arms. He wanted to talk about it. He wanted to know why. 

I don't know why.

I ate a handful of almonds earlier. They were the first thing I'd eaten since Sunday. I meant to eat some celery too, but I just couldn't. 

I'm so exhausted. My eyes keep closing. Maybe I can just lay back on the examination table and sleep while I wait...

The doctor comes in and smiles. She scans me up and down with her sharp eyes. "How are you feeling?" 

"Awful." I admit.

She tells me my bloodwork came back fine. I expected that. She did too. "That doesn't influence how we are going forward though." She reminds me. I nod wearily, trying to focus.

She listens to my heart, my lungs. She is saying something about being concerned. She's concerned by my weight loss. I perk up a little. "What is my weight?" I ask curiously. The nurse who takes it is not allowed to tell us. She writes it on our chart and hides it under a yellow post-it note. 

"109 lbs." She tells me gravely. 

I try to keep my face neutral, but I'm angry. I weighed 107.0 lbs this morning. A record low.

She looks straight through me in that uncanny way of hers. "Do you weigh yourself every day?" She asks.

"Yes." I admit.

"What has it been lately?" 

"108, 107..." I mumble. 

She gives me her serious face. "That's a significant weight loss. You're obviously malnourished."

She goes on, but I'm stuck on that word. Malnourished? 

I resist the urge to look around the room for this malnourished person she's talking about. It can't be me. Obviously. I am no where near malnourished. All I have to do is look in the mirror to know that. But besides that, I've done my research. My BMI is 19 even. It would have to drop to under 18.5 in order to be considered "underweight." For my size, that's 104 lbs. 

I want to be 104 lbs. 

I try to focus again. She's saying things about how I might need a more intensive program. I feel a flutter of panic. I tell her I'm starting DBT. The worry stays in her eyes, but she slowly nods. She asks if there will be meals served in DBT. I don't know, but the thought of it makes me feel panicky. 

"I think there is." She says. "That's good. You need some nutrition."

Fuck.

I drive home in a mixture of fury and panic. I don't need an intensive program. I can't do an intensive program. I have to go to work to make money so we can pay our bills (including the hospital bill which finally came in at $7,000) and our mortgage and our car payments so we can keep our cars and our house and not lose everything and be kicked out onto the street where I'll have to watch our three cats starve and then we'll all die.

I go to the grocery store. I buy food. Good food. Healthy food. I shove it in the cart with a fierce, stubborn determination. I don't need people fucking feeding me. I can feed myself. I'm fine.

I make my poor sick Mr. some experimental homemade chicken noodle soup. I make a version for me using quinoa instead of noodles. I thought I could do noodles, but as soon as I got in the car, I freaked out. No. I can't do noodles. But that's fine. I don't need noodles. People can not eat noodles and be normal!

The chicken noodle soup turns out spicy and flavorful with shredded rotisserie chicken, sweet potatoes, broccoli, onions, garlic, carrots, celery, and those nooodles. My soup turns out more like a curry with lots of mushrooms, broccoli, sweet potato, onion, garlic, a little chicken, and the safer dangerous quinoa. 

The Mr. had requested bread to go with his soup, so I bought him a french loaf. I wasn't planning on eating any of it, but suddenly I did. I ate one small piece. Then I eat another. I eat a whole bowl of my soup. It is delicious. 

Then I feel full. I feel panicky. I hate myself. I want to get on the treadmill. I want to slam my arms into the wall again.

Instead I take two sleeping pills and one Ativan and go to bed. 

See? I am fucking fine.

of ghosts

The rack of wedding dresses always appears in Goodwill around Halloween. I love running my fingers across their faded silken skirts and worn lace. Who wore these dresses? Were they smiling when they walked down the aisle? Did they cry? Who undid all those tiny buttons? Did he whisper "I love you" into her hair?

I can't help myself. I grab two dresses and drag my sister into the dressing room. She helps me through the maze of lace and silk and zips me up. We both stare at my reflection in the mirror.

This wedding dress that belongs to someone else fits me perfectly.

I stroke my cold fingers down the skirt and think about ghosts. Perhaps that's all she is now, a ghost long gone. And here I stand in her wedding dress, a ghost still living.

I buy the dress. I can't help myself. I convince the Mr. that we can be Emily and Victor from Tim Burton's The Corpse Bride for the Halloween party my friend throws every year. He loves me enough to agree.

I hang her wedding dress in my closet, running my fingers down the silk one last time before I shut the door.

....

The never ending buzz of people talking and laughing washes over me. I'm smiling in her dress, which fits me looser than it did before. My makeup is perfect. The Mr. looks dapper in his white collared shirt and vest, blue flowers tucked into the pocket. The music pounds, pounds, pounds into the walls. I am floating on whiskey, carrying my bouquet, my raggedy, ghostly veil floating behind me. I dance in the kitchen. I curl up on the couch in the garage, tucking my freezing bare feet under the layers of silk, and watch beer pong and laugh. I admire everyone's costumes. I joke with people I hardly know. I pose for pictures and smile. 

I eat.

It's not very late in the evening when I realize my smile has turned brittle. I wander through the crowd in her wedding dress and look at everyone else. They are all drinking and eating and laughing and dancing and talking and smoking and having a good time. 

I stand among them, but truthfully I am on the outskirts of this happy picture, peering wistfully through the glass. I don't fit in here. I'm not like them.

I am not happy. 

I climb the stairs, feeling crushed under the weight of my own pretense. 

In the bathroom, I look idly and drunkenly through the mirror above the sink. I don't even realize what I'm looking for until I've shut it. Something sharp. That's what I wanted. Instead I find a eyeliner pencil. I pull her skirt up and bare my thigh. 

I write "FAT" across my leg in giant black letters. 

I stare down at it and a horrible laugh catches in my throat. How juvenile. How ridiculous. 

How true.

I replace the pencil and drift out of the bathroom, but I don't return to the party downstairs. I go instead to my friend's guest room, shutting the door behind me. In the darkness, I lay down on the bed as though it's a coffin, clutching my bouquet to my chest and feeling the music pulse through the floor.

I close my eyes and wish I could just go to sleep. I wish I could drift outside of this body and into the sky. I wish I could slip through the bed, through the floor, past the crowd of people taking jello shots, through the dark menacing basement, and deep into the earth where everything is silent and still.

Instead I get up. I tip toe down the stairs in my bare feet. I join the party and find the Mr. He takes one look at me and asks me if I'm about ready to go. I feel guilty. I say no.

So I drink more whiskey.

Everything is a haze of colors and shapes and I am rocking back and forth in the kitchen. Nelly is crooning about something and someone just said something funny and everyone is laughing and there's a smile pasted across my face and I just wish I was dead.

I am a ghost.

Eventually the whiskey isn't enough. We leave before midnight. I fall into the car, pulling my layers of skirt in and clutching them to me. I am a bundle of silk and lace with fake flowers in my hair. I lay my head on the Mr.'s shoulder and close my eyes. I'm too tired to pretend anymore. 

....

I wake up in the early morning, my hair a snarled mess, my mouth dry, lips cracked. 

Next to me the Mr. sleeps peacefully in the dim light. A car drives past. A bird chirps.

This is life. And I am still in it. 

I numbly close my eyes, searching for the oblivion of sleep again. Despair sits heavy on my chest. 

Because I am still a ghost.

side effects

"Prozac is good for people with eating disorders." They said.

They failed to mention the reason why. In my case it was because Prozac turned me into an apathetic lump who sat on the couch and stared at the wall.

"Klonopin will help your anxiety." They said.

They didn't tell me it would help by making me too tired to care. Emotion was exhausting. Everything was exhausting.

"We don't want you to feel nothing." They said. "Let's switch you to Zoloft."

The return of emotion was like a tidal wave. One day I didn't care if I stared at the wall all day long. The next, I was sad. Then I was furious that I couldn't cry because I was sad. Then I was anxious because I was feeling anything at all. Maybe that was the foothold it needed, but anxiety grew back like a cancer. It dug it's claws in and held on.

"Sometimes your body gets used to Klonopin, and it doesn't work anymore." They said. "How about we try Ativan? And while we're at it, let's increase your dosage of Zoloft."

"Ok." Is all I say.

"You should really cut out caffeine." They tell me. "Caffeine has a very strong correlation to panic attacks."

I don't say anything.

How can drugs have both insomnia and drowsiness as side effects? It seems like a very intentional form of torture to me. I've started taking Melatonin to help me sleep at night. I drink up to six cups of coffee to keep me awake during the day.

Cut out caffeine? I might as well cut my wrists.

"Alcohol is a depressant, you know. We really recommend that you don't drink."

I press my lips together and bite back the urge to scream. Or cry. My emotions change faces too quickly for me to tell.

"I just want to be able to sleep at night and stay awake during the day!" I want to yell. "I just want to be able to have some drinks with my friends! Like a normal human being! Is that so much to ask?"

I know why I was the only person in the psychiatric ward with a full-time job. It takes all of my willpower to go to work everyday, and I like my job. In this, I will admit that I see my own strength. Because it is so fucking hard to pretend to function like a normal person forty hours a week. But I also see my weakness. Because there are so many days where I am tempted to not go. To take ten sleeping pills and pull the covers over my head. To go past my exit and just drive and drive and drive until I run out of gas.

I am a kaleidoscope of chemicals, and I just want somebody to explain to me why a side effect of my life is being like this.