Done

I broke up with him.
Finally.
Sunday or Monday he asked if I had doubts. I said yes.
It was a huge struggle to put mg thoughts out in the open though.

Tuesday I went to dinner with my dad and stepmom and step siblings and my stepmom told me that by prolonging it I wasn't showing him love.
I told her I had wanted to but thought maybe after our vacation since I had paid for it.
She told me that was rude and selfish.
(He has been asking me to still go even now.)
I asked her to pray for me then. Pray I find the strength.

I'll tell ya, when God gives you strength he lays it on you.
I went home and broke it off, packed a bag, and went to my mom's.

For two hours or so we talked and argued and it's crazy because I can barely remember what was said. I just know that I knew what I needed to do and all of a sudden it was unbearably suffocating to be with him.
His negative attitude is something that leaks and pours into the atmosphere around him.
He's a very unhappy and searching person.

It wasn't easy at all for me to do this and he called me and the texted me until 3 am.
The calls alone were 30 to 45 minutes long and it was the same thing over and over and over.
I slept two hours and woke up at five am and started crying.
I told God that it wasn't much, but I was making an attempt to commit to Him.
My friend L came over that night since my mom is on vacation.
It was such a rough night.
He called and begged and pleaded and got angry and L just rubbed my back or hugged me as I cried.
I cried and cried some more.
I curled into a ball and felt my eyes grow heavier from tears and exhaustion.

I went to work on two hours of sleep (I think L got less) and then cried on break.
They said at 1 I could go home since all the ladies asking me about it brought me even more tears.
I cried after work, sobbing even.
At 4, I went with my stepmom to get some things.
He cried and begged and pleaded. In the end I had to go.
I had no emotions for him, none that made me want to stay.
Just love and that I was sorry.

He called and talked for 45 minutes and I put it on speaker because I was tired of holding my damn phone.
My stepsister thinks he's a cry baby and an asshole all at once.
My stepmom is floored by his manipulations.
I became numb to them. Four and a half years is a while to bury it and turn away from reality.
He called two hours later to say that if I didn't get my stuff he was throwing it out on the street.
I came, more talking and crying and pleading.
I took a few bags and left.

From there I went to L's house and sat on the kitchen floor sobbing.
It breaks my heart that it has to be done but it's not right and I don't feel the same about him.
We are unhealthy together.
Tony called me again and was freaking out and it stressed me out more.
I ended up laying my head on his leg and bawling.
There was probably a good ten straight minutes or more of tears and nothing else.
The hole from uprooting this is big. It's deep and it aches.
There's a quote by C.S. Lewis that says, "There are far better things ahead than any we leave behind."
It has been my mantra, just running over and over.
That and praying.
God promised he would help so I'm clinging to that promise.
My faith is what's going to be my anchor.
I don't remember what I asked, maybe I said I was sorry I looked like this, all pathetic and sad.
L said, "I feel lucky to see you this way. I get to see every aspect of you, not just the happy side or the side you show people. And when I look at you all I can think is God, she's so beautiful."
He was so sincere in that moment.
I guess that's how I just knew this was the right choice.

Yesterday I got all my things out and he freaked out and threw our picture at a mirror and broke both the mirror and frame.
Crying.
Begging.
Saying I did it out of the blue and didn't give him a chance to change.
My heart has cracked over and over and I just keep praying and riding out the wave.
I said that I doubted things would change because we gall into old patterns.
I even admitted that I'm not in love with him, only love him.
He said goodbye forever and then was begging me to stay. 
I said no.

He wouldn't even let me say goodbye to my dog.
He gave her to me! She's mine!
More crying.
I offered to pay for her and the cost was one chance.
I said no.
I'm so distraught about this.
Now he's letting me see her at four and I'm just so exhausted with this.
I don't want to see him. I want a nap and to disappear because that's easier than facing him.
I don't want to fucking try.
My intentions aren't cruel! We just don't work! I'm sorry for my wrong doings and I'm sorry he hurts!
I know it hurts to have your heart snapped and I'm not even stepping on it or spitting on it.
I care for him a lot.
It's just... over...
Please...

So this is where I'm at.
If you do any praying, please put one in for me.

...

"I think I have four distinct worst memories. I don't know if they're truly my worst, but they're things I remember most. The first was when I found my mom with her wrists cut up." 

Look towards the west again, to the hazy full moon. 

"My dad was yelling at her and I didn't know what to do because I didn't know how to react to someone that was in that much pain. My second was when she wanted to kill herself and she was going to leave me at one of the rest stops on the interstate with the phone so that I didn't have to be in the car when she did it and I could call someone to get me." 

He squeezed me tighter. 

"My third was when my friend told my mom that I was being abused and my cousin called the house and asked why I was saying that." 

Squeezed even tighter. 

"My last one was when I was about 16 and I was about to be hospitalized and I looked in the mirror and saw how disgusting I looked, how bony."

Quiet. 

"Oh, and the time I laid in bed begging God to let me cry. I maybe made two tears." 

I went with my older friend to pick up her daughter. She was drunk and upset. 

At thirty, this isn't what she thought her life would be. 

I look around and I see so much pain and it breaks my heart because I can do nothing. I try so hard but you can't do anything but help ease the pain.

"Sometimes I  wonder how there's so much brokenness in the world. We can't fix it. We just exist." 

"We have free will." 

"It seems like we always end up using it to pick what hurts us. I just want to help everyone, but I can't." 

I tried to break up with my boyfriend tonight. 

He knew it was coming and he was upset and he was talking about things that didn't particularly relate to the situation. I told him we weren't compatible and so he was trying to say where he was coming from.

I've heard it before. 

A million times actually. 

He has this way of skimping over what I want to say until the very end when I'm too tired and I'm done listening. 

I tried to tell him that I love him but don't think we're compatible, that I don't think things will change. 

Words got stuck. 

Heart ached from the inevitable.

So I went to the liquor store and found a huge bottle of Zinfandel for $10.99.

Does it help the situation? No. 

Sometimes you just get tired of thinking and hurting. 

Sometimes you get tired of hurting others. 

I don't know why, stress I guess, but the last two days have made my disorder come back into swing. 

Pinching thighs. 

Feeling shoulders. 

Collar bones. 

It doesn't seem like the situation is going to resolve easily and all I want to do is reach 122. 

I hate my skin, my choices, my body, my heart. 

Sometimes I feel like I let you guys down when I fall back into it. I'm usually more positive. 

I just hate myself for various reasons or I feel disappointed that I couldn't do more or be more positive.

Or stronger.

Sometimes I feel like I was made for this moment and wouldn't know how to transition into healthy living if I tried.

I know that's false thinking, just what's available due to not know what the future holds.

Tomorrow morning I'm going to try and shed the extra pounds. God knows I've been caring more than just excess skin. 

Sometimes I get tired of existing. Sometimes I just want to do it the right way. 

Muggy

"What are your dreams?" I ask, absently.

It's muggy out and my hips and lower back are sore.
Probably just signaling some form of incoming summer storm.
Or change.
We're sitting on his stoop in the night testing peach and tropical fusion flavored cigars.
The moon peers out from her hazy curtains and the trees are silhouettes.
My knees are pulled up and his arm is propped at the angle of my legs, fingers swirling the inner side of my knee in that dip.
Smoke pours from our lips and seeps into the night air.

"To marry you someday."
For a second, he stops and moves his arm to get a drink from his Gatorade.
Immediately my skin ripples a goose bump protest then smoothing when he resumes.
There is nothing I want more than to be able to say what needs to be said, to have the courage to end my current relationship so that I can be free to taste happiness.

It's muggy in my heart.

Two days earlier it was Tuesday night and since my cousin and uncle were visiting from North Carolina, my Grandma and Grandpa grilled.
We sat close enough for fingers to skim under the table.
Eyes darted back and forth.
Grandpa made us a second margarita.
Then I made us a third.

I have eaten today, but it's not enough to soak up the alcohol.
Fingers easily slip between has when they stroked my hand.
Time to go.
Sneaking three wine coolers and turning up the radio as we drive to his house.
Sitting down on his futon in my tequila haze, saying what needs to be said.
Somehow our lips found their way back to each other and he's laying me back.
I'm weaving my hands through his hair, gently tugging it.
It's so soft, just like his kiss, even in urgency.
He pushes my long dress up my thigh to run his hand up the full length of my leg and I'm running my hand up his back.
Too far.
We've gone too far kissing like this.
I cry because if I wasn't a slutty cheating girlfriend with self respect this wouldn't have happened. 

I cry because I should be able to just break up with my boyfriend and not feel such struggle in my heart.
I cry because my abuse has me programmed to go along with things,

I cry because this programming leaves me with guilt that I didn't push myself to do what needs done, even if I like the person, to say no, not until I've broke things off with him.
I sink to the floor, ashamed it's coming back to me with a safe person.
He sinks to the floor and scoops me into his arms, holding me, kissing my hair.
I try to explain and he holds back tears. I hear them, lodged between his throat and eyes.
He says he didn't mean to make me cry, that despite the struggles and pain I'm beautiful to him, that he loves me.

I straightened up since Tuesday.

Tony asked last night if I had doubts.
"Yes. I'm unsure about us and don't feel connected."

My voice hesitated. 

"I just don't know anymore..."
"If you need to go, you need to do it before the end of the summer. I'll still let you stay if you don't want to stay with your mom so you can have privacy. You can't lead me along thinking we'll make it. I'm still in love with you. I'm not the one with doubts. You need to do some thinking."
His face is etched in my heart forever but I can't be in this anymore.
He looked heart broken.
Tired and worn from work, use, and monotony.

I feel heartbroken from things done, things thought, and settling.

He stops time.
We've been friends since I was 16 and I never knew he could do that.
When other guys have touched me in any form, I feel nothing.

Maybe it's sweet. 

Maybe it's uncomfortable. 

It's nothing. 

Just touch. 

He gives me goosebumps. Literally. 

This has never happened to me, not even with my first love.

When they talked about being careful because you can get lost in the moment in sex ed at school, I didn't understand and I never have. 

There's never been a moment. 

Until his hand was sliding up my thigh. 

There has never been someone that has made me question the lies I tell myself. 

There has never been someone that has made me believe, on my own, that I am not dirty, tainted, ugly.

There has never been someone that has made it difficult for me to restrict and work myself to exhaustion at the gym, to make me feel like I'm not just a sexual abuse victim, but a beautiful and radiant soul capable of all the things that I ever wanted to be.  

There has never been.

Until now.

I will struggle. I will want to hold on to these security blankets I reason hold value.

I won't eat. I will eat. 

Still hoping for my 5 pound loss.

Still angry that I eat. It's hard not to worry when I come home happy.

I'll drink too much now and then so that I can say the things I've needed to. 

I'll work out and feel insecure and stare at myself naked, wondering who would find this girl radiant in all that has been done to her, she chose to do, and the ways she has hurt others. 

I'll smile with my eyes and hurt in my heart and I'll laugh easily and learn to cry unashamed. 

I'll learn to do the right thing by my bf, I promise you all I will do it.

It's muggy out and my head is turned to the right, which is west. 

Seems like I've always been watching, waiting, anticipating the sun's setting and never the rise. 

I never liked mornings. 

But I'm starting to like the dawn. 

"I have to tell you something."

"What's that?" 

"I'm not very good with expressing how I feel so just bare with me. It's probably dumb, but I just, I just feel like I need to tell you." 

Strokes my leg softly.

"You can tell me whatever you need to."

"I think... I think for the first time ever..... I think for the first time ever I want to recover. From everything." 

Forward

I walked to the end of the dock and looked out at the lake.
The sun was warm, hot even.
His nephews were splashing around in the water.
The waves lapped at the rocks and boat ramps.
I turned back and looked at him looking at me and felt my thin dress and the wind's fingers softly rippling over my heating skin.
Beautiful.
Not just the view either.
I felt thin and comfortable in my own skin.
He said he loves the way I look at him from the corner of my eye then look away and smile bashfully.

Sitting on the counter last night.
Holding hands in front of his family.
All of us sharing a beer and laughs.
He and I sharing secrets.
A few kisses spontaneously when passing each other on the way to and from the bathroom and my car.
Perfect.
Until I get home to someone else.
And realize that I am a shameful and terrible person.

I'm no longer in love with my boyfriend.
I'm in love with my friend.

I love my boyfriend dearly. He means the world to me. There is no easy way to do things now. How can you just break off a four and a half year relationship? You can't.
I want desperately for him to be okay, to make it through parole and beat his addiction. I want him to get married to a beautiful soul and have the kids he wants someday.
I want him to move to Colorado like he wants and live in the mountains like he dreams.
Even though he has told me he already does, I want him to forgive me again for the things I've done and said to him.
Right the wrongs.
Never hurt him again.
He isn't mine. He's someone else's. Just like I am.
I love him so much. So much that it brings tears to my eyes.
The pain of finally breaking it off is going to be intense. I love the way he thinks of others and can be so loyal to his family and those close to him. I love how considerate he can be and protective.
There just isn't enough there to be happy and not fight so much.
Loving him needs to be as a dear friend.

I surprised my dad yesterday by coming over in the morning to go to church and have lunch after and like usual, God finds a way to challenge me.
The service was on faith.
It was interesting because I realized how much this applies to everyone with EDs as well, whether you believe in God or anything spiritual or not.
Movement is an outward sign of faith.
What the pastor said next shook my world.
"Perseverance is movement forward, even in the bad times. God wants you to move from what's comfortable to what is uncomfortable, to have faith."
For the last eight years, yes eight, I have been hunkering down and taking whatever came my way.
When things are tough, I stand fast and let the barrage of struggles come at me, fighting them off, but never moving forward.
The fear of something else coming out of that unknown and not being strong enough to fight it always keeping me cemented in place.
I took myself for strong.
That's not the case, really. Maybe in some sense. I know that I don't give myself credit for the strides I've made forward and the things I've tried to work on and be open about. There are many sexual abuse victims that are unable to admit it or unable to have relationships, dysfunctional or not, simply because the fear and anxiety are too much. I'm blessed that I'm not triggered constantly and only certain situations cause triggers. I feel emotional side effects and things I never realize haunt me until later, but they don't hinder me constantly.

To persevere is to take whatever comes at you and watch the world pass you by because that's what you're supposed to do: take it, fight it, stay where you are. The future is scary. Change is scary. I need my security blankets that are unhealthy because it's better than the fire of healing.
Writing it out, how I live, I think, are you crazy? That's no way to live at all! I do though.
We all do something that sounds crazy on paper but it's the truth, how we exist.

To persevere is to move forward. It's to stride on no matter what. It's to not let life get you so down that you stop moving.
The only movement I've been making is in circles or not far, side to side, from my little trench.
Telling myself I'm being strong, moving forward, as I shy from change and true healing.

Pain is temporary. Always.
There is so much better out there! There are so many things, so many ways God wants to change my life and opportunities I could have if I would just freaking move!
I'm truly being a failure right now because I won't try. My worst fear is my current life because I'm afraid to take a leap of faith.

My security blanket is anorexia and a relationship that isn't going to progress to a happy marriage but would be too painful in a moment to end.
I say I'm moving forward from my sexual abuse but I won't talk about it really. I say it happened and that I'm fine, that at least I wasn't raped. I  think it was my fault. I tell myself what a few people have asked. "Why did you let it go on so long?" Abuse is abuse and it happened for a long time so why do I degrade myself and invalidate myself?
I don't talk about my ED because we all know we sound so weird. Very few understand our world and the true feelings below. I live in denial to others about it, appearing like I'm just being health conscious. My friend wants to be there for me if I need to talk about it. I can't. I'm ashamed of my emotions.
I am insecure. I'm secretly emotional. I'm scared of many things I pretend I'm not afraid of.
I'm human.

I'm going to keep praying for the strength to move forward and to allow myself to be loved and healed because I have to. I have to be the person God created me to be and to help others. I can't do that buried in the trench.
My ED is going to be the last to go. I can tell. At 132.8 this morning, I was devastated. I measured out my breakfast, ate little, and am skipping lunch.
I'm human.
Baby steps. Giant steps.As long as I'm moving forward.
Not everything has to happen at once.
Something I desperately need to remember.

I love you all. I don't know many of you personally, but sometimes out of nowhere, at work or in the car, I get that nudge in my heart that I should say a prayer for many of you that I talk to frequently and so I do.
I mean this truly from my heart when I say that you are so beautiful. All of you. You touch my heart, challenge me, bring me up, and support me. It's so invaluable. You are rich in your hopes, dreams, thoughts, and feelings. Thank you for letting me say what I need to and writing what I must as well as letting me get to know you. At times I worry about people I know finding my blog but I have to be ashamed for a lot more than a space where I show that I am a broken person like the rest of the world and that I care deeply for people despite this and despite many instances of selfishness. Thank you everyone.

 
Oh! and Bella, this is my first attempt at a layer cake. :D Sloppy, but it was so darn good! Strawberry cake with Irish Creme frosting and strawberries in the middle and then that fluffy awesome frosting you put on angel food cakes all over. Looks a little less than beautiful but everyone absolutely loved it. I guess it's the inside or the taste that matters, right? :P



My question/food for thought for the day, if you wouldn't mind sharing is: What are your security blankets? What are you having trouble moving on from or having trouble taking a leap away from? What would you change about your situation?  Who is the realistic person that you can and want to be? 

Summer

Summer has always been magic for me. I'm not sure why. I guess for the majority of people it usually is. 

Sometimes I just want to tell you all stories because memories come in pieces to me and then emotions, and I just feel the need to open the window and let them out, so I will. 

I was 15, going on 16 when I got my first real job. It was working on a ranch of one of the people we went to church with. 

At the time minimum wage was$6.50, I think. I got $6 and free room and board since I stayed there Sunday night or Monday to Friday, maybe Saturday depending on the work needed done. 

This was when my eating disorder was at it's strongest and when I was just realizing that I wasn't dieting. 

I was anorexic. 

It still didn't quite click though. 

It was just nice to know that I would have a job, be making money, and get out of my house that was so suffocating with all the turmoil.

For a few months I had an older boyfriend (18 or 19). 

A cowboy for sure. He could actually stand on his horse and crack a bull whip and the horse wouldn't bolt or move an inch. 

I remember us riding in that old beater pickup of his, me in the middle, country music up, him shifting gears and my hand on his Wrangler jeaned thigh until we were at speed and he would take my hand in his. 

Seems cliche, but even as I write this I smile at the thought of it. 

Back then I was even more emotionally unstable. Everyone had just found out about my sexual abuse and I was an emotional ticking time bomb. I couldn't bring the same amount of feeling he could. 

He left me at the beginning of the summer, a little after maybe. At the time I think he may have been seeing someone else, maybe cheated, I don't know.

All I know is that I found I was heartbroken, emotions surging where they didn't belong, long after the fact. Story of my life.

And so, my summer began. 

The work is hot and hard and I have even more respect for those that make their living in agriculture. 

With daughters grown and out of the house, M and D gave me their youngest's room to stay in. 

M would knock on the door at 7 am to rouse me from my tired bundle of blankets and bones. 

Hair up, old jeans on, tank top. 

Pulling my sleepy eyed self to the breakfast table. 

It was meager, if I remember correctly. 

M and his wife would eye my food, maybe lightly tell me I would need a little more than that for the busy day ahead. We would say grace and ask for a productive day ahead, give thanks for things, then read a daily devotion before heading out by 8 am to work. 

I hated the morning hours. I don't know why. They always seemed to drag on unless we were moving cows. 

We would always listen to the news radio station too, which didn't bother me since I've always been interested in politics. 

Lunch would be between noon and one and was Midwestern to the bone. 

Hamburgers from the beef they had raised, green beans, maybe sandwiches, iced tea, chicken made with cream of mushroom soup. 

It was still delicious and I was starving.

Still I would take meager portions, still five more hours left of labor.

Back to work.

When I was working alone, fencing in the 90 something degree heat, I would listen to country music and alternative rock. 

I think I was trying to be someone I wasn't since everyone at my small school was rodeoing or grew up on a farm or ranch. We were all country kids, for the most part. Only a handful of us didn't quite fit the lifestyle long term. 

Anyway, I tried, and I love my roots. 

Time was a transient blur and yet eternal. 

The burst of May's spring came and transformed into the softness of June. 

Even to this day June is my favorite month.

My dad's in the summer

It was a quiet summer for companionship, but a friend of mine, K, lived just down the road from M's house. I would make my way over after a long day of work to find company. 

Earlier that afternoon I was looking at the pasture lands interrupted by corn fields and with my tanned arm hanging out the truck window I saw a crew putting up a pivot in the field by the house.

K told me my old boyfriend Z, who I was missing, was working for the crew. I thought I had seen him driving on those dusty roads. Hope. 

Those feelings of angst dotting everyone's teen years. 

We started taking the horses out for night rides after we were both done for the day and supper was eaten. 

M's horse I got to use for the summer was tall, maybe 18 or 19 hands to his withers. Definitely a climb up. Beautiful dark brown with white and tan small spots and fading. His name was Shack and I grew to love him. 

Up and down we would ride, through the hills, down the dirt roads racing. 

Leaning forward in the saddle, giving him his head, both reaching for the imaginary finish line, one body, horse and human. Sometimes I wouldn't be in as good of a position in the saddle and so I would grip harder with my thighs and grab a fistful of his dark mane. 

Nothing makes me feel more alive than when I'm on the back of a horse. It's been a couple years since I've ridden and I crave it, crave the pure and wild abandoned freedom.

One hot evening we rode across the way into someone's field, looked around to make sure no one was watching, tied the horses to a tree, and played in the pivot, getting soaked from head to toe.

My eyes scrunched up and lighted, mouth in a huge smile as we danced between the stalks of corn. 

Giggling like idiots, we ran back to the horses, jumped on, and raced off, my bony butt slipping and sliding and grabbing the saddle horn to steady myself as I dripped water all over the leather. 

Dying evening sun drying us off. Talking about love. Talking about life. Talking about nothing and something. 

Unsaddling them, finally relieving them of their duties to go roll in the dirt then bolt off into the pasture to rest.

One night I came back to her house and I'm not sure how, but I had managed to talk to Z again a few times. Maybe he contacted me. Maybe not. I don't remember. 

That night K's parents and siblings were gone and he came to the house with things for us all to drink. 

Now that I remember, he drank a lot of beer as it was. His mom's death years before still weighed heavily on him.

Watermelon and Apple Smirnoff wine coolers. The drink of my teen years. 

We began to become slightly tipsy and K went off to the kitchen. 

I asked if he missed me at all. 

He said that he did, he'd seen me around, knew I was trying to just get a look. 

Blushing, I couldn't deny it. 

Tired green eyes peering into bloodshot blue eyes. 

We both wanted the same thing.

"I'll take her home," he told my friend as she walked back into the room. 

This time I sat on the passenger side. Moon high in the sky waxing soft silver.

Pulled over on the rode between her house and M's. 

Soon I was in the center seat and we were kissing, picking up intensity.

Windows were down, laying me back, hip bones poking him. 

All that was left between us used for the fire under those stars.

I was home late, but not past midnight, silently creeping into the house. 

It was all I needed, that long string of kiss after kiss. Just a taste. Just the feel of his chest under my fingers. Just a resolution to the story in my heart.

After that night, things faded out again and I didn't see him until August.   

He told my friend at the rodeo that he wasn't interested in a bag of bones. 

July came and it was hay season. My tractor was a cab with only one window, sometimes the second, that would open and no AC. 

Any other person may have sweated death, which I did a lot of. 

I brought my Ipod and mechanically raked while M came behind and baled. 

My favorite days, aside from moving cows, were the ones he would leave me to the west field to stack the bales. 

I'm amazing at backing up because of those hours backing up to the bales, hoisting them up, them neatly putting them in rows. 

Sometimes we would put up alfalfa, which had to be done at 11 pm, when conditions with temperature and dew were just right. 

The first time was scary and I didn't feel confident driving such a large piece of machinery into the early morning hours. 

It had to be done. 

Like most things. 

Then up again at about 10 for more work.

I lost even more weight and I remember myself feeling empty then too. 

I read a lot of books in that time, in the truck on the way somewhere, at night after my daily sunburn and shower. 

Lost in pages of lives. 

Lost somewhere between skin and bone. 

Lost emotion. 

Lost period of time. 

I wonder, and maybe you can tell me if it was the same for some of you, have you lost pages of memories from time periods where your ED was at it's strongest? I'm sure my mind checked out to protect me from their fighting, my abuse, my everything. 

All I can remember is that from July on I existed. I read. I worked. I would fall asleep on the living room floor and make my way to bed, exhausted. 

Headaches all the time (dehydration, I imagine) and so I took a lot of ibuprofen. The sun has kind of always given me them. Light headed. Lost. 

My mom was taking me to the doctor sometimes and I never registered why. At one point she told me it was for a physical to make sure my body wasn't being damaged. 

Too much protein in my urine. 

Going to internal medicine because something was wrong with my kidneys. 

I was the youngest person there. 

Counseling maybe now and then, but not often. 

I wasn't ready to talk about the things that had happened. 

Weighing myself secretly in my grandma's basement on the old scale where you had to move the measures on top.

I don't even think I received a formal file diagnosis. I've never seen my file, of course. 

My period never stopped, although I was very thin. 

1/4 of a pound from hospitalization, my mom told me. 

111 was the lowest weight I remember measuring myself at, although that was with clothes, no shoes, and grandma's old scale. I'm 5'8ish. 

And just like that, summer evaporated, leaving me now with residual emotions and images and no full story to place them, merely pieces.  

The progress I had made from those hours of hard work and no food is obvious.

I guess I post these to show where I came from, how different things are, how much life can change between 15 and 22. 

Here's me at that game. I keep this picture to remind myself of things. I'm not sure what. Maybe the dark place I came out of? 

It almost scares me now. 

My eyes look so dead. My face looks so pale. When I get too thin my crooked smile looks strange instead of endearing. 

Here's me now. When I put them side by side I'm just amazed at how alive I look, even if I'm relapsed. 

The top is you at your ultimate goal weight. The bottom is you at a healthy weight, even if your mind isn't. 

It may be my face, but I am you. 

I'm one of the faces of anorexia. 

I hate that word. It's ugly. I hate people calling it Ana.It's not a person. It's you. You alone inside of you in a dark and dry room with maybe only a crack of light coming from a door. There is no Ana. There's only emptiness.

I will never say I have it, not by that name and not by the clinical name. It burns.  

I long to ask my mom about that time but it emotionally aches. Her sadness burns. 

By the time I return to college my goal is to have asked her about that period of time, fill in the gaps. 

I recovered. One day I stayed at my grandma's house and was in the bathroom late at night. I can only give credit to God because in one split second of a moment he rescued me. My eyes worked. I saw myself as nothing. There was nothing left of me. I felt so much sorrow and so sickened. Little by little I began to eat. My first love helped me put on more healthy weight from 16 to 17. I was never fully recovered in my mind. Maybe for a few months at most, mentally, but that is my story. 

Maybe I told you all that because now I feel empty again. I feel lost again. Struggling with love again. Struggling somewhere and everywhere again. 

Wanting 122 and feeling such anguish that I weighed 132.6 this morning. Wanting to stop eating. Feeling like an adolescent still in a growing up world. 

It was sort of long, which I apologize for, but sometimes your heart leaks when your mind did too much thinking. 

My question for you all is when was your eating disorder at its height and how did you feel? What memories did you have? Were there gaps like mine? Did you manage to climb out and how? 

With Gravity

He wants to love me, my friend.
We kissed that night under the influence of too much wine and a few beers but it was nothing that wasn't sprouting in our hearts before.
I feel guilty because although things are at a crossroads, they are not definitely one path or the other.
My past and my future.
We felt such an urgency to be close.
I told him it was as though I had to melt into him to be close enough.
He smiled softly and agreed.
I love two people. Different ways and for different reasons but it's true.
I've never had someone ache for me that way, not like this.
I've never had someone shyly, but still quietly boldly, tell me that they don't know what they would do without me in their life and that they love me so much that it hurts not to wait, that it hurts too much to move on.
I haven't heard so many cheesy things from the heart in a long time and sometimes I have to put my phone down and think. 

"Sometimes I wonder if we'll even work out or try or if it was just a waste of time waiting."
"It would never be a waste of time. When was the last time you felt alive anyway?"  I was just teasing.
"That night you kissed me."
Lost for words. Blushing.
I told him it couldn't be this way, Tony, him, mixed up me.
It has to be the right way.

Too many things have been said in the last week and a half that reflect my inner layers to me and all I can do is think and observe.
Love scares me.
Pure affection terrifies me.
I can't move forward in my relationships and faith because I can't accept love.
I have been damaged deeper than I thought from my abuse and choppy home life.
I think I'm a selfish liar at times.
There's that dark side, the one each persons has and uses well.
Mine reminds me of something that sucks your soul from you, makes it bleed, emotions set free, then I leave without putting them back because I don't know how and they're too intense at times.

I'm sort of ashamed to admit I do this, but I guess we all do bad things. 

It starts with the eyes. These are my most powerful tools. There is no other place, no other part of me that can convey my emotions like my eyes. No part of anyone.

From there it's then engaging you. Smiles, laughs, flirting. 

Fantastic flirter. 

Steal your compliments, show you I'm a well rounded person at college, in my personal interests, my goals. You see these real facets of me.
I may not be the most interesting person you know, but with my passion for people, a few amazing stories about Greece, in college and I demonstrate I'm not the stupid girl at the party, being a female that loves metal, and the fact that I can play Nazi Zombies on Call of Duty as well as a guy and STILL wear a dress to kill while throwing out some deeper, offhanded comments, I seem intriguing.  

Tell me more. 

But who are you? 

I put people at ease. I genuinely care, even if in this moment I'm doing something devious. 

All of a sudden I've begun to get a framework of you life. You know slight parts of mine. You can tell I've suffered and struggled. Poor dear. You seem strong. 

Strong people don't do what I do. 

You're interested. 

I've led you on with a few flirty comments. 

Touched your arm as I laugh at something you said. 

You smile, I look into your eyes, combination of seduction and innocence. 

There it is. I've found it.
Emotional vulnerability. Just a crack. 

We all have it when we meet people. 

It's not very wide, but it's hopeful. It's the beginning. 

I am in control. 

Sick. 

I've given you a little vulnerability as a trap.

Maybe they got bold and kissed me. 

My kiss is my second secret weapon. 

Poor guys.

Sometimes it goes too far and they like me, I tell them I have a boyfriend, apologize. Sometimes I say it outright at the end of the night. All in fun. 

"You're a cool guy! We can be friends. Let me know when you guys are going down town again and maybe we can all meet up!" 

There are numbers in my phone I've never contacted again. Just need to get around to deleting. 

I was emotionally vulnerable many times in my life, even though I'm only 22. I thought maybe someone, guy or friend, would love me enough to not be afraid of my struggles. That inner ugliness. 

Whatever reason there was, they left. Friends couldn't hang. Guys thought I needed too much. Closeness from someone. 

It's repulsive to me now, that need. 

It was a natural reaction to my changing world. Family knew I was sexually abused for sure now, though they may have suspected. Life out of control with my parents always fighting, mom leaving and counting on me to side with her and leave with her. Dad acting the stable one. Eating disorder out of control. Needing an anchor in the hurricane. 

I don't need you now. 

Tony has taught me to be even more emotionally self reliant. I've adapted it, of course, and I appreciate some of the growing up he's helped me to do. He could have left me when I was clinging. He didn't though. God knows we both needed an anchor. 

I didn't really need their compliments. I didn't really need to be told I was beautiful.

What I needed was to know I could open someone up the way I have. I needed to know that just that small part of me was beautiful enough to bring you to a point of vulnerability with me. That I could bring the right someone to their knees someday.

Now I have. 

I don't do that to my friend.

I can't even look at him fully in the eyes usually because it's too hard.
I'm too vulnerable.

He loves me. 

Those words have never been so heavy. 

I wish I could even write it properly. 

There is a guy that I've been friends with since I was 16. Floating by each other, always a little interest, but something was quite right for the time. Now we've collided and it's time. 

The world is changing. 

There's something that is supposed to change. I feel like it's God's way of showing me there's better. There's health. There's life. There's happiness. There doesn't have to be this life. 

It's scary.
It's vulnerable.
I have to hurt to change and be who and where I should be. 

All of this is a feeling and I can't express it but what I have found is that I'm scared of love. 

Love is the dirty thing to me. It's the thing I shy from. It's too pure and it burns. Plenty of people chase like they know what it is, but if they actually felt it in it's raw, pure form, it would burn them. 

Sometimes I wonder if that's why it's so hard to embrace God and let it all go. 

This is the love you don't deserve. This is the love that wants you. It calls out to you. It begs you. It's jealous for you. 

All I can do is sit here. 

I sound crazy to anyone that isn't religious, I know. 

A relationship is supposed to be a reflection of how God loves and I think that it's going to be a massive healing if I allow myself to be loved by him and allow myself to be loved by God. 

It's one of those spiritual decimation moments that took all your walls and broke them. 

Healing and recovery are very scary things. It's so scary to give up control, the control you didn't and did have. The only choice you did have. You don't know if recovery and life and whatever struggle you're protecting yourself from is worth it. All you can do is jump with a prayer and some faith and some swearing for good measure. I'm swimming upstream, hurting myself this way, lowering my goal to 122. I'm going a way that isn't mine and I don't want to give it up but it tears at me. Trying to purify when I can't. Being a god as a human. So many thoughts These realizations are beautiful and terrifying with the heaviest gravity. I'm not going to be the same. 

What are you afraid of giving up control of? 

What is your dark spot? 

Flames

I'm looking out at the reservoir water, just watching the little waves roll into the small beach, feeling the cool air and listening to them roll in.
I don't think I feel much. Just staring at the flames of the bonfire we started and trying not to calculate how many calories there are in each beer I drain.
I fake dropped my brat in the dirt so that my dog could eat it and not me.
Don't worry, I had like six marshmallows to make up for it.
It's beautiful here, though.
My stepbrother is playing in the water despite it being only 68 max at the moment. Cold front rolling through the Midwest and all.
To tell you the truth, my thoughts are bouncing between feeling like I don't feel anything and how that upsets me, my stomach and how it looks with my legs pulled up, beating myself for eating, and the fact my good friend is sitting next to me and I can't help but feel like he's more than my friend, my happy ending, but I can't let go of my current ending.
I really hate myself.

I know I'm going to smell like camp fire smoke when I get back and I love it.
Reminds me of all the times we went when I was younger. Before things crumbled further.
There's something about listening to the water roll in, the chill of the wind, and the warmth of the fire that blazes that makes me feel comfortable.
My hair has gotten long since this time last year and I love the way the wind takes it perfectly.
Slithering over my shoulders.
I've got inches to go.
I watch his fingers as they grab his beer. He plays the guitar as well as our favorite metal artists.
Pride, even though he isn't mine.
I hope he thinks I'm beautiful and I hope he notices the way my eyes look so green today.
Quiet. What are you thinking that for?
I'm not staying tonight. This is because I'm working out in the morning. Thank God he's here and has to go back (a convenient excuse to drive home.)
There's only so much self hatred a person can take.

Sometimes I wonder if this is part of the human experience, that feeling we don't belong anywhere.
It is, of course.
I'm so naive.
The eternal optimist.
Negative for a day or two at a time then back on hope's soap box.
I believe every word of it too, except if it pertains to me. Or the circumstance. I'm not immune, truly. No matter what, because hope is real.
Lately I've come to believe I exist for the soul purpose of loving others but not being loved.
Serving but not allowing others to do for me.
What sense does that make?
It doesn't.

To tell you all the truth, sometimes I feel like I wasn't meant for anything. That sounds so out of place for me. Too out of place, actually.
"You haven't ridden in my new car!" my friend exclaimed last night.
We drove it to the next town over. I took one hit and was stoned. And thoughtful.
There were a few houses falling into ruin and I thought to myself, I wonder if the houses that have seen the most sadness fall into decay?
But we're all decaying.
Slowly. Rapidly. At whatever pace our frantic hearts allow.
There is no true atrophy for the soul. It always goes in some direction.
No matter if it's fading or igniting.
Two nights ago I sat at the table with my dad and asked if I died if he would have to pay for my loans since he cosigned them for me.
That was a mistake.
"So even if I'm in a car wreck and died, say, you would have to pay for them?"
...pause..."Yah, they would default to me since I cosigned."
...cheerful.."Well, I better not die then!" All smiles. Just a joke.
That leaves me screwed for accidental death, unless I win the lottery and can pay off my college loans.
Swearing inside.
Why?

Maybe I wouldn't feel so guilty about living if I was doing something "life worthy."
I love my job, I really do. I make dessert, do food prep, and am a dietary aide for the elderly.
One man took six of my cookies. I felt honored.
My only true passion in life is helping people, that's why I chose counseling.
If I'm not at the gym or work I don't really know what to do with myself.
Who am I?
Feel so empty.
I strayed from God for a bit and now I find myself praying fervently at times to fill the hole.
He always lets me know things will be okay, but I doubt.
That, or I'm afraid of the pain that will take to get there.
Trust and faith.
Those things are hard to do.

I fear pain so much. 

Why? I've been so resilient to it. So numb. 

I know someone will tell me that these feelings will pass. It's what I would say because it's true. 

I keep feeling reassured in the fact that my design was to self-combust. 

I'm fallible, everyone. 

The heart tries to stay strong to nourish the soul. 

I keep hoping I'll have a heart attack on the treadmill though. 

I eat too much for that. 

I'm going back to the 600 calories a day plus gym goal. 

We'll see how it goes. 

Something inside me says I let people down by admitting I'm going to do everything in my power to go back to restricting tighter again. 

I just feel so empty every day.. 

I feel so conflicted about the unconditional love from my friend, patiently waiting, and my current relationship. 

I just want to be bone and leave it up to God if I should die before I wake. 

"Don't do it." 

Don't tell me that. 

I know the risks. The psychology behind it. I know. 

My counselor even told me the last time I was in a year or two ago that I had great insight, I just needed to do the doing part. 

Where is my flame? 

Was it a lie? I didn't think so. Maybe it's just hazy now. 

The crazy feeling is coming back though. The need to weigh everyday and lose. Restrict. Burn. Purify. 

Who am I? Not this girl, I think.

Or I am, but just struggling.

But why do I think about death like I'm worthless and it's simple, the logical end? Not because I want to commit suicide, not because I want to die. No, just Russian Roulette with God. Just seeing if I deserve a punishment for nothing in particular. Existing maybe. 

Crazy. That's what I sound. 

In between something. 

Just please don't think I'm pathetic.. I know I am..

"If I should die before I wake, I pray thee Lord my soul to take." 

Not suicidal. 

Asking. 

Begging.

Doing everything I can to make a difference and be successful and then finding out if I really am worth a life. Because I don't know if I was meant to be the one that is supposed to be married happily with kids, a career, all that.

I wonder with horror if I'm the example. 

No one should be ungrateful for the life they were given and I take it for granted. Still I will press on. Don't you worry. 

Every day I fear failure, a loveless marriage, never committing to God like I need to, failure.

Every day.

125. Can I do it? We'll find out. 

Burn it out. 

Make me not need this life anymore. 

What do you fear?