Trying to be a protector

(Trigger warning.  Bad language, dark thoughts, and slight sexual talk.)

He fucked someone else.

He’s the one who fucking decided to not speak to us for weeks, acts all apologetic when he comes to visit us in the hospital, and then last night he decides to tell Charlotte he’s fucked someone else.

While they’re in the MIDDLE of foreplay.

Fucking classy, right?  Motherfucking classy.

I wanted to put my boot through his shitty fucking face.  But I didn’t get to control that situation.  Since it was a fucking sexual situation, control falls to fucking Charlotte.

Fucking Charlotte.

So fucking needy in her fucking needs that when he drops that gem of a bombshell, she fucking pauses, stares at him a second while internally WE LOSE OUR FUCKING SHIT.

Then she carries on like nothing fucking happened.

Fucking fantastic.

She fucks him not one, but twice after that little gem of information.  She tries to justify it by saying she didn’t try hard (yeah right).  But that’s not even the fucking point.
Then she needles him.  She fucking push, push, pushes the shithead to admit that the cocksucker’s fling of betrayal was shitty.  Great fuckwit.  I don’t fucking care if it was the shittiest lay you ever had.

You’re still a fuckhead.

He spends half the fucking night trying to say how beautiful, how lovely, how gorgeous we are (stupid fucking V told him about the body image issues and most recent laxative use).

It all fell on fucking deaf ears.

All I can fucking hear in here is how awful we must look for him to go out and find someone else to fuck.

Shit.

Now I have to fucking deal with a brand new spiral of self-hate after we just dug ourself out from the last one.

Thank you motherfucking shithead of a fuckwit.  I’m putting up a fucking banner.  We aren’t going fucking back to him.  This is it.  Charlotte filled her fucking void.  She’s done for a couple weeks.

We finally found a fucking doctor who will see us (appointment tomorrow) so we don’t fucking need his medical fucking ability.

The fuckhead can just stay away.  Stay the fuck away.

Don’t need these fucking mind games.  We already create our own shit.

Hoping the fucking doctor tomorrow can help.  And I’ve never fucking hoped on doctors for shit.

Anything to calm them down.  Thinking they’re fat and ugly and unfuckable.  Jesus.
Charlotte fucked the man twice and he certainly had no issues performing.  Ya’ll are fuckable.  Chill the fuck out.  It’s him that’s unfuckable.  I’m sure the low class whore of a bitch he found was like, 400 pounds and had the worse butterface in fucking existence.

I’m with Middi on this front.  If meds can help, I’ll allow them.

Especially with the numb fucking hands being the worse they’ve been in awhile this morning. Can barely put the fucking bra on.

So that’s our fucking weekend.

Hope ya’ll are fucking good.

-Rika

Rose-Tinted Lies

**(EXTRA Trigger warning for blunt and not pretty ED talk)**

The glow and flame and burst of light you think you’ll have.  The silver insides, the fluttering clean, the glorious empty, the lightly skipping steps of a person who is perfectly thin.

It’s a rose-tinted lie.

Here’s what an eating disorder really is for me:

It’s two am and I wake up with those sudden feelings of self-hatred and the flab seems to be clinging, clinging,  Something has to be done.  It doesn’t matter that work is in the morning and I really shouldn’t be a shell at work.  I reach for the pills.

It’s living a life where measurement of pills are dolled out by shakes of a bottle and tosses into a shaking palm.  Proper dosage is only “more”.

It’s making sure I have enough ephedrine to curb the hunger pains and exhaustion.  It’s reading the articles that talk about it being mostly outlawed because when it was coupled with caffeine and aspirin it caused dramatic weight loss (and a lot of health problems).  And my only reaction is “gotta get some low-dose aspirin”.

It’s telling people I love eating hot sauce straight because I’m a weird nut about spicy food; when it’s really because it acts as a natural laxative and adds next to no calories.  And loving that it burns the shit out of my tongue so I don’t want to eat more.

It’s the burning and painful tenderness of my behind after I’ve had a particular violent bought with the laxative effects.

It’s sobbing in the middle of a weekend afternoon because I desperately want to bake something (baking being my secret passion) but knowing I’m not seeing anyone soon that I could pawn the results off on.  So I have to stop myself from doing it.  Otherwise I’ll just eat the results and cow’s don’t deserve desserts.

It’s being a little happy deep down when a particularly nasty migraine results in multiple days of vomiting.

It’s hating myself so deeply, so darkly, in a twisting thorn of rage, for the days after those migraines where I can’t eat enough.

It’s telling coworkers that I ate before I came to work and I would prefer to just work through lunch.

It’s shaking and trembling in the bathroom after those handful of laxatives, the cramping in my stomach so bad that I’m pretty sure I’m going to die.

It’s unexplained bruises and scratches when I wake up in the morning.  The only clue is a echoing cry of despairing self-hatred in the back of head.  It is almost childlike.

It’s hearing my best friend tell me I look like a pinup model in a swim suit and wishing, just wishing, that I could see myself that way.  I’m not dumb, I know my eyes are broken.

It’s hearing my mother say “You would never treat another person the horrible way you treat yourself” and being stunned into silence by the truth of it.  I am my own worse enemy.

It’s hoping, hoping, hoping that something will change.  But nothing ever does.

It’s a rose-tinted lie.

Where I am

WordPress just informed me that today is the anniversary of my blog.  

This is bittersweet to hear.

I am in a bad place right now.  After my last post, I was very very ill for three days (there is no glory in taking excessive laxatives).  

I had hoped that I would be leaps and bounds better from where I was a year ago today.  It doesn’t feel that way at all.  

Honestly, I wish I could just fade away quietly.  I am too cowardly and tired of the pain from the laxatives to do anything violent towards myself.  But if I could just push a button and be gone…
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However, taking a look at the positive:

I have so many wonderful new friends.  You all are such great supports and I know I would be in a worse place now (perhaps even gone) if it weren’t for you.  Yes, you.

I have learned so many things.  Coping, support, just the mere empathizing has been a great thing.

I have laughed, I have cried, I have gasped in horror, I have shivered with excitement.  Your lives have enriched mine- even over the seeming impersonal world of blogging and the internet.
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Two days ago I almost shut down this blog.  I am still scared, depressed, disgusted (with myself), exhausted, sad, angry, heartbroken and so much more.  

But I have to remind myself all the good this blog has done.  All the help it has provided me.  And that it is okay to just take a step back sometimes.  

It’s also okay to ask for help.

When I wanted to shut it down two days ago- it was because I was so scare to ask for help.  I was so angry with myself for taking so many laxatives.  I thought I deserved punishment.  And you guys always make me feel better.

I wanted to shut down that support for good.

But I’m so glad I did not.
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So happy anniversary to myself.  And I hope I am able to stumble back onto my feet sometime soon.

Warm thoughts to all of you ❤ ❤ ❤

$1 Off Coupon

(Trigger warning- relapsed ED talk)

I never thought a dollar off coupon would trigger me and erase weeks of attempted recovery.

I get home after a long day at work.

I go through the mail.

There are the piles of coupons, as per usual.  I rarely use coupons, but I go through them anyway because my father taught me frugality.
There’s a brand of butter I use and I am almost out- set aside.  Dog food, but not the one Zoe likes- discard.

Then I see it.

One dollar off a brand of laxatives.

I stare at it.

I blink.

The walls crumble.  I think about how I ate lunch at work and I shouldn’t have.  I think about how I haven’t restricted that much at all lately.  I think about how I used the last of my laxatives weeks ago and why the hell didn’t I buy more?

But here’s a sign.  Here’s the universe telling me, in my father’s own “coupon language”, that I’m fat, I’m worthless, I’m disgusting.

How about some reduced price help with that?

Yes please.

Splintered

I am splintered.  Really struggling with the whole unity and “I”.  Feeling only like a “we” the past couple days.

And we are not agreeable or allies in any way.
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I’m not sure what made me decide to confide in him over text about being fat and ugly and needing pills and laxatives.  I’ve never spoken to anyone about it before.  I did take some pills and washed them down with a couple shots of liquor.  It makes it easier to not think about food.  I don’t need food.  Food makes me fat.

Then he texted us.  And sent everyone into a tailspin.  Charlotte is squirming in that nasty way she does.  He asks if I’m all right.  If I’m coping with all my new stress.  He says he misses me.  He asks about the new guy.  I don’t want to talk about Craig.  He says he’s worried about me.  He wonders if I’m handling living alone all right.

And I tell him.

I tell him I’m so fat and I have to take the laxatives on the weekend because otherwise I can’t go to work.  That during the week it’s hard and I struggle so bad to be a good girl.  That the other ladies at work always look so chic.  And they notice when I lose weight.  They notice every single pound.  And they are so happy for me.  So very happy.  They praise.  They congratulate.  They sing and shout and smile.  Their white teeth take up their whole face like fence posts in front of a perfect house.  A house a lady would have.

He cuts off my rantings and calms me down.  His encouragement and praise for my body being the way it is skitters into my brain and wraps around me like a blanket.  He dismisses the thoughts of blubber, of fat, of sludge.  I tell him it’s been weeks since he’s seen my anyway.

He says it doesn’t matter.  He doesn’t like me being so cruel to myself.  He says he cares.

How can he care?  He just leaves and dismisses me.  He doesn’t care at all.

He never cared when Audrey was hurting from the mess he made.
(he never thought the pregnancy was a two-person effort)

Why am I the one who feels pain at his words?  I don’t care what boys think.  What is wrong with me?
Charlotte’s affecting me too much.

More pills.

-Victoria

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I’m not exactly sure who told Craig our address.  My best guess is Charlotte or Kit.  It’s hard to know.  All I know is this boy stands in my living room, offering gifts of chocolate, ice cream, diet coke (Kit’s weakness) to try and make our back pain better.

But I barely know him.  I certainly don’t know him well enough to chose to let him into our residence.  But someone thinks he’s safe.  I think about enlisting Rika to help me boot him out.

It’s Charlotte that surfaces instead.  She entices him into the bedroom, saying they’ll watch a movie.  I wrestle control enough to stiffly watch a movie with him.  The damn muscle relaxers are messing me up badly.  Me, who can handle most pills like a trooper.  It is my talent, after all.

The rest of the evening slips past me.  I doze at one point.

The body dozes.

The boy doesn’t leave.

It’s me who wakes up in the cold light of morning and feels the pressure of an arm slung over my waist.  Rika fights her way forward but is caught by something.  By someone.

And suddenly I am gone.

-Midori

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no one knows self-sabotage like i do.  the boy moves closer, muttering something about mornings and food.  i remain perfectly still.  i am a statue.  i am always a statue when they want me to be.

but he wants to get up and go get food.  i stare at him.  he remarks that i can’t go to a restaurant in pajamas.  i look down and notice that i am fully clothed in a t-shirt and the loose pants that say coca-cola in red.  i glance back up at the boy.  he is fully clothed in jeans and a black t-shirt.  he tilts his head slightly and says something.  then he smiles in a sickeningly honest way.

i run

-daria
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I could eat.  I change clothes in the bathroom and accompany him to Bob Evans.  Breakfast sounds the best.

I am a little disappointed over the lack of activity last night, but he seems to be the type who isn’t into a quick roll in the sack anyway.

In my disappointment, my thoughts easily drift to Army as he natters on about his antics with friends back during his school days.  I wonder how much Victoria’s craziness scared Army.  It doesn’t seem like much, considering he last texts are about how he’ll always listen to us if we need it and all he wants to do is help.  I idly wonder what sort of help I might be able to get that offer to extend to….

I snap to attention when Craig mentions children and stare at him.  He speaks again, talking about how he-wants-a-family-and-he-has-name-ideas-and-he-thought-his-ex’s-baby-might-have-been-his-but-the-timing-wasn’t-right-and-that’s-probably-a-good-thing-anyway-because-he’s-done-with-her-and-a-child-should-be-with-someone-he’s-attracted-to-and-cares-about…

His eyes focus.  I blink.  And frown.

No fucking way.

I fucked that shit up before.  I am not gonna be the one to crack open that jar this time.  Not to mention that the last time was a complete accident.  This guy sounds like he’d hide our birth control pills.

Fucking hell.

-Charlotte
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