2005-02-23, 9:55 a.m.
I've been seeing Jen still. We hung out on Monday at her apartment. I brought over loads of craft junk and we made felt bracelets. I also met her 40 year old room mates. Her brother was also there, whom I really like. He's hilarious and gets along with Jen great. Sometimes while me and Jen were sitting at the table, stitching away, it was just silent. It was okay, but I would just get this incredible urge to ask her so many questions. Stuff like, "have you ever had one of those nights after purging where you'd hate yourself and think "my god this isn't normal" " or ask her why she's befriending me, and if she thinks i'm a freak, and why parent's won't love you, and if everything will be okay eventually? Because I just feel like we have this kindred spirit, or something. We relate so much and have been in the same boat for so long. But the thing that differs is that she seems stronger, laughs harder, and ready to get better. But she has these moments when were driving and she tells me a story and her eyes tear up, and her throat closes like it just happened yesterday. I just want to tell her that god, I totally understand. Why won't this go away?
I told Julio about my potential friend, and he was very happy about this. I also told him that I can stop picking my body apart. It's getting really, really bad. My face has always been an issue, my arms started to be an issue, but now it's spreading. My chest has fingernail size scabs and wounds from collar to my clevage. My legs are the worse. My right leg looks like someone took a sharp rod and poked it over and over and over, all over. Or maybe a really bad inflamed version of the chicken pox. The left leg looks like it started to spread over, but was caught just in time. Julio wanted his wife, who is a nurse, to look at it to make sure it's not infected, but I didn't want to remove any clothes. I got so embarressed and scared of the idea that I started to cry. He didn't push it very far, but did ask a few more times.
The rest of the appointment we talked about my anger. That's been a big issue lately. Also about I blame everything on me, and not anyone else. I came to a realization that I would have sympathy or exusce the behaviors of someone, anyone else who had a terrible childhood, eating disorder, and other like mental problems, but for me it doesn't apply. I still need to get good grades, keep my room clean, NOT get an eating disorder, and be social. I always feel like I could be doing better.
I'm struggling with what's the norm and what I am capable of doing. Should I force myself to start my essay today, or relax as I feel needed? I have been working nonstop, but I have the time. What do NORMAL people do? I feel like if I'm not taking every opportunity to be productive, I'm being lazy. Surely everyone else would take their day off from school to do math homework and write an essay...but i'm pooped from this hard week. oy.
I went to a meeting last night too. I really really didn't want to go, but Marlie driving me helps. She just said "I'll be there at 6:40" and that was that. I'm glad I went though, because Jen was there, and it was nice to hear people speak. Marlie found out that I haven't been purging for 22 days now, today will be 23, and was a little too estatic. Next week will be my 30 days, and I get a chip.(not potatoe chip, just this key chain thingy).
Julio thought I was taking steps towards recovery because I'm going to meetings and not puking, but I don't know what I'm doing. I'm still not eating very much and not trying at anything. I know I'm not working "the steps" or trying to get a sponsor. I don't want to gain weight. I like being at 80. But it sucks to feel like shit all the time. I never thought I'd be comfortable eating microwavable popcorn and sugar free pudding everyday.
As content and stable as everything may or may not seem, I'm depressed. And worn out.
Julio couldn't understand why I wanted to kill MYself if other people are responsible for my hurt and anger. I told him how would you feel if every morning you woke up to a foreign body, covered in scabs, fearing the scale. As soon as you get out of a shower that you basically took with your eyes closed and your heart pounding, your mother kills any good mood you have with names like "dipshit" "worthless" and "stupid". You feel ugly in your messy room you can't clean up because you're too weak from not eating. You're so weak that when you climb the stairs to math class, you feel like you've ran around the building 100 times. You fail the first math test because your brain is rotting. Your parents hate you even though there suppose to love you unconditionally. You have no friends. You're incredibly behind in school. No one gives two shits whether you live or die, or would notice. So I think it's not a matter of trying to hurt myself to die, it's not wanting to live to face another day of that.
He didn't get it. He still wanted to go back to that other people hurting me, which I understand. But whether or not other people did this and blah blah blah, I still hurt. And I have no intention of killing myself, but it was just this part of a story I was telling him where I finished off by saying "I wanted to kill myself".
I feel like one of those wind up toys that keep bumping into a wall over and over.