Hurt

Miserable.  I don't deserve to be miserable.  This has been my mantra over the past several weeks.

I was stopped dead in my tracks shortly after my last post.  I went to therapy, minding my own business like I always do, and my therapist told me he had a possible solution for handling my vices.  Or addictions as they should be more accurately described.

REHAB

Are you fucking kidding me?  Turns out he wasn't.  And that was a sobering moment.  To come to the point in my life where I'm told that I am essentially out of control and I need to be locked up to gain control is probably enough to get most anyone's attention. 

I am all about control so coming to the reality that control is not something in my arsenal; well, that one is a tough one for me.  I came here and had nothing to say.  Perhaps out of embarrassment.  Perhaps out of fear.  Perhaps I was wordless.  And so I was quiet.

Back to the rehab thing; I used my daughter as a reason... excuse... and asked for a month to get my shit together.  I then went home, armed with a list written by my therapist for my husband.  And I actually gave the list to him and did a lot of explaining.

I've left my husband in the dark about a lot.  Especially when it comes to the food and cutting problems.  When I told him that I still cut his response was, "but that's what fucked up people do". 

I met his remark with a smile and a raised eyebrow and said, "yeah".

So I'm doing what fucked up people do.  I'm talking; not in my head but with audible words for real humans to hear.  I'm trying to express my feelings better.  I'm being honest about my habits.  And I'm letting people help me.  All novel concepts. 

To keep busy, I'm also quilting and sewing everything in my path.  I made two quilts in a week.  My husband is worried that he is going to wake up and find himself quilted to the bed.  I told him that if it keeps me sober then perhaps he should pick out some fabrics that he likes.

I'm doing better.  I am thinking before I eat, drink, or hurt myself. 

And politely speaking, really all of this has just been one form or another of hurting myself.  Impolitely, I have been self-destructing or fucking myself up.  Whatever it is, I don't deserve it. 

I've been hurt enough.

Vices

I started this blog with the need to be honest.  Good or bad.  I write a lot about my past, my secrets, my hurts, and a little about my feelings. 

I have a present tense life as well.  However, my present has always been wrapped up in my past.  And my future, well I honestly could not imagine one.  I have never been one to even dream of a day down the road.  I grew up living day to day.  Even moment by moment.

My father's death has changed a lot.  I held my breath with every phone call, knock at the door, even a familiar cologne or voice.  I don't have to do this anymore and it is the strangest feeling.  I have a present life.  And possibly even a future.

So now as I look at my present I see that it is a tangled mess of feelings, numbness, bad habits and addictions.  I have never cared about these things before.  Because I had no future.

Here is the ugly truth.  My husband told me that I am an alcoholic the other night.  I told him that he was full of shit.  After discussing my drinking habits in therapy last night I asked my therapist if I was one and without a taking a breath or even a pause his answer was "yes". 

Nice.

And another ugly truth.  I eat too much.  I guess that's called binging.  And then I throw up.  Purging.  And then I won't eat at all.  And after that I will binge again.  I have done this for years.  My food issues run very deep.  Food is one of the earliest ways that I remember my parents abusing me.

And yet another.  I cut.  That one is pretty straightforward. 

I know that all these things need to stop.  They hurt me.  Some worse than others.  And worse, these things hurt the people who love me.  But I would be lying if I said that replacing these habits doesn't scare me shitless. 

Food.  Alcohol.  A blade.  These things have been constants in my life.  My friends.  What I run to when I'm sad, hurting, numb, lonely.  Even happy.  So I am looking for some new constants.  Healthy ones.

I don't really know what I want by writing this.  I suppose I just want to be honest about where I am and where I need to be headed.

Party

What is a blog in December without a cheery holiday post from a Christmas past?

My blog.  Sorry.

I have spent the last several days attempting to conjure up even one sliver of a Christmas memory to smile and roll my eyes at. The bike I always wanted. The puppy in the bow-tied box. The impossible-to-find-toy found under our tree. The antics of out-laws and in-laws. Something. Anything. Nothing.

I can't remember a Christmas in my past; I just know that I have never enjoyed the holidays. The closest I come is in remembering a school party, candy canes, and trashy gifts.

I hate getting notes sent home from the teacher. Whatever is detailed, asked for, or is changing; those things will be ignored. My face red with shame, I will stand and explain to my teacher why the note was not followed and why I am unsigned, empty handed, or out of new guidelines. My parents are too busy to care or too unimpressed with me to help a kid be a productive member of a second grade class.

I am sitting in the carpool line and pinned to my shirt is a note on green paper asking for my contribution to the class Christmas party. Filled in the blank with curly teacher writing are the words candy canes. I like to eat paper and I would have been better off eating this note. I would be less hungry and my mother would have one less item to concern her hatred with.

Walking to the car, I pulled the note off the pin and crammed it in my uniform jumper pocket. I waited for the seemingly right time to ask... after my sister had presented her own classroom party request and had it approved. What better time?

I ran to my room to rescue that green note from a certain death in the washing machine. I took it to my mother and showed her my own request. Quickly she glanced and returned the note to its original creases. I received a conditional "yes".

Behave, keep your room clean, have good manners, don't talk back... these were the conditions pressed upon my behavior in order to receive my candy cane contribution.

The night before the party came and went. That morning, I asked my mother where my Christmas party requirements were and informed me that they were in my bag. Once at school, I opened my bag to find a smaller bag. Inside was one, single peppermint.

One fucking mint to share with my class.

Humiliated, I am sitting at my desk when I hear the morning announcements. The younger kids are having their parties first. There is my one chance. I twist and fret until the younger parties are finished. I ask to go to the restroom and slip into the other wing of the school. Happy kids are leaving hand in hand with their hurried parents. The classrooms are black as I step into each one to forage for my treats.

Digging through cold cups of hot chocolate, sticky red frosting, and squeezed small juice boxes, I find my treasures. Discarded candy canes. I carefully wipe each one off and will the broken ones whole again. I carefully stuff them in my pockets and repeat this process until I have twenty precious canes to share with my friends.

I race back to my own classroom but not before I peer into my sister's room. And there she is. My mother. Smiling, laughing, and enjoying my sister's Christmas party. I hate her at this specific moment.

I return to my seat only to linger a few minutes behind when the recess bell rings. With everyone gone, I retrieve the rescued candies from my pockets and place them on the table with all the other green notes fulfilled.

She didn't come to my party. She never said a word to me. I never said a word to her.

Food

Food and eating have been continual struggles for me. As a child, I was punished by withholding food. At times I would cook a dinner for the family to help my mother out but then I would not be invited to eat dinner with the family. I got the leftovers I could sneak. I was frequently sent to school without a lunch. With no money to buy a lunch, I was left to my own devices. My best laid plan was to act up and get detention for which the punishment was cleaning the lunch tables after lunch while everyone else went on to recess. I'm ashamed to say that I ate many of my lunches from the trash that my classmates discarded. As I type this, my face is hot and red with shame; my most common emotion connected with eating. As a child I was ashamed for sneaking food because I knew it was not a normal activity for a child. Now, as an adult, I am equally ashamed because now I binge in secret.

I have always feared not having enough food to eat. I secretly obsess when I sit down at a meal that I will not have enough and what I eat will not fill me up. Ordering at a restaurant creates anxiety because often I don't know what the portions will be and again I will not have enough to eat. If I have a chance, I will eat before a meal if no one else is around. And if I have another chance, I will eat after a meal if no one else is around. Tough to do with a husband and three kids around but I still manage. I am terrified of going to sleep hungry.

What about emotional eating? Yep, I do that too. I'm self-destructive as hell and binging is destruction at it's finest. When I'm sad, I eat. When the memories are too much, I eat. When I hate myself, I eat. And then I hate myself even more for binging. When I write this, it makes no sense to me logically. But I still do. Food is comfort, food is punishment; I learned both of these lessons as a young child and I carry out both equally well.

How do I stop this obsession with food? I'm not sure. But I have to figure it out because it only breeds my own self-hatred.