An Untitled Poem For Olivia

Your birthday has come and your birthday has gone.
I made you a rose and I wrote you a song.
You probably hate me for not visiting.
I wanted to go but I just wouldn't sing
not one note to that rock that sits on the ground-
not one word to your corpse that is so far down.

The stars were your candles that God lit for you,
but you made no wishes so nothing came true.
You could have come back if you'd just blown them out.
I know that you didn't since you're not around.
You've found a new home that you don't want to leave.
You want to stay there; you don't want to see me.

I looked to the sky and I saw that the moon
refused to turn into a birthday balloon.
It was just a crescent, so small and so thin
because it was hidden by clouds that rolled in.
But maybe from heaven you saw the whole thing.
That's certainly what I would like to believe.

I went for a walk and I noticed that leaves
are carried by wind after falling from trees.
When you fell, was there any wind there at all?
I doubt it because nothing cushioned your fall.
But now that you're gone, it should really start up
and carry you quickly so you'll be with us.

I miss you, my darling. I miss you, my love.
Are you happy now that you're way up above?
I hope you're at peace now. I hope you have fun
still singing and dancing and going for runs.
I need you to make sure that this wish comes true:
You will be my angel until I fall, too.

What's There To Say?

   

Rest In Peace, Olivia.

You will always be my angel.



Happy Birthday!

http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.2341366689209.2114232.1101200518&type=1&l=c726d466bf

Olivia Rose Belfiglio

November 29, 1992 - June 4, 2010

Forever in my heart.

Shakes And Aches

     Anyone who says that people with eating disorders hate food is either really stupid, or really ignorant. We, and I believe I speak accurately for most eating disordered individuals, love food. If we hated it, we would not be so obsessed. If we hated it, we would not be so afraid of it. We don't hate food, especially when we're starving.

     They're back. The much too familiar hunger shakes and headaches have returned. They're awful, but I wouldn't sell them for anything. I feel just like I did when I was taking big doses of those diet pills and consuming over 1000mg of caffeine every day. I am weak, physically, emotionally, and mentally. I want to eat. I do, I really really do. But I won't.

     I need a scale. Now. I need one now. I need to know how much progress I've made. I need to know what I am. Not knowing my weight is absolutely torturous.

Lunch

     Ever since Friday, I've been struggling with food more than usual. My family is eating lunch in the kitchen right now, and I'm trying to keep down two low-fat cheese sticks and a bowl of peas left over from Thanksgiving here in the living room. Honestly, I think the only thing keeping my head out of the toilet is the massive amount of diet tea that I just drank. I need that caffeine in my system. Anyway, this is what my mind looks like at the moment:

Yeah. I'm pretty much obsessed.

Apology

    I'm really sorry for what I posted last night.

I deleted it and it's gone now, for those of you who never saw it.

Erin's Little Blog

Yes, this is the same blog you've been reading - just changed the title. (:

Soak This In.

Was It A Slip Up, Or Is It A Relapse?

     I don't understand. I really don't. Yesterday went so well. I didn't restrict, binge, or purge. How did I manage to do all three today? I told my dad I ate breakfast, when, really, I just had black coffee. And lunch was easily avoided because of the Black Friday shopping spree that I went on with Emily and my grandmother. But then came dinner. We were celebrating my dad's fiance's birthday today. Her mom wanted to go to this huge buffet called Shady Maple, so that's what we did. I really thought I could handle it, but I was terribly mistaken. I ate so much. It was horrible. And it's not like I was eating anything healthy, either. Starches, starches, and more starches, with two desserts to top it off. It made me feel sick, emotionally and physically. I asked my dad if I could go for a short walk outside of the restaurant, and he said yes to fifteen minutes. I really didn't intend to purge. I just wanted to calm myself down. But once I got outside, I just gave into the urge. I found a nice bush to hide behind, and puked. When I was done, I felt awful, yet so accomplished. That's the part that scares me.

     I didn't have to do it. No one made me. The urge wasn't nearly as bad as it could have been, or as it has been in the past. But I still did it. I did it knowing that I was doing it because I wanted to feel the pride that comes with purging. I didn't feel disgusted - only, well, proud. It had been quite some time since I'd last purged. I guess I just missed that feeling. But it's not like I couldn't control myself or anything. I made a conscious decision to let go of my recovery. And I'm not so sure that that's a bad thing. Scary, huh?

     Professionals say that an eating disorder is a disease. They say that it's a type of addiction - that its sufferers aren't at fault. But I'm pretty sure I'm the exception. I brought this on myself. I asked for it. I wanted it. I thought I could make it go away once I got the results I was looking for, but I found out the hard way that it doesn't work like that. According to my therapists and psychiatrists, I'm stuck like this forever. And it's no one's fault but my own.

Eating Disorder Or No Eating Disorder, Let's All Be Thankful.

     Thanksgiving is a holiday dedicated to that one huge meal that everyone's supposed to enjoy. Every year since my parents divorced, my dad, his mom and step-dad (who drive from Alabama), my sister, and me all pitch in to fix every food imaginable for dinner, one that could never in a million years be consumed by five people. But we do it anyway. Don't get me wrong; I love my family, and I love spending time with them. The AL grandmother, Mama, is the one who sent me a card every day during the eighteen months that I was in residential treatment. And this is the grandfather who sent thousands of dollars on a Martin guitar for me two years ago. They love us so much, and we love them, too. They're awesome. But that doesn't make the holidays any less difficult for someone with an eating disorder.

     I feel terrible about feeling so terrible. I hope that makes sense. I have so many people and things that I am able to be grateful for, and I thank God for that. But there's just so much food. The meal has been over for hours now, but there is still so much food in this house. It's horrible to consider that a bad thing. Not everyone can say that they even have enough food, and I am keenly aware of that. But it's still really hard. My mind is consumed with the guilt that is leftover from eating. I didn't even binge, but I still feel absolutely awful. Maybe it's the whole concept of the meal that gets to me, or maybe it's all that food that's still around me. Either way, I simply cannot shake this feeling of misery.

     I really don't know what to write about now. I guess I'll just state the obvious:  I survived Thanksgiving. I really really did. It certainly wasn't easy, but I got through it. Now I have to remember that for Christmas.

Trichotillomania?

     I did this thing when I was about six where I used to pull my eyelashes out. My parents put me in therapy and everything for it, and I seriously was the most hideous little kid alive; my eyelids were bald. Anyway, that ended a long time ago, but I still find myself doing compulsive things like that, like biting my nails. And, sometimes, I even pull my hair out. It's really weird I know, but it honestly doesn't hurt. Like, not at all. Hence, I'm beginning to doubt my own sanity. It really sucks being crazy. I'm always acting like a freaking psycho; it's horrible. Whatever. I'm starting to get really pissed at myself again, so I'm not writing anything else.

Heaviness Despite My Gargoyle

     I'll start this post by telling you that today was a really good day. I spent most of it painting a ceramic gargoyle, while one of my best friends, who's practically my big sister, painted a cute little troll. We ate lunch together and had a really great time. She is the one and only reason I can honestly write that today was good.

     I don't mean for this next part to come across darkly, but I'm inclined to believe that it will. Heavy - that is what everything has become. Each word spoken by those for whom I have unrequited love adds yet another weight to the heaviness. Each thought that enters my mind stays there; they pile and crowd inside my head, pushing against the walls of my skull. Each glance into the mirror adds countless pounds, figuratively and literally. Every one of my unidentifiable emotions has entangled itself into a massive knot. It is all so heavy. So, so heavy.
    
     Contradictory to yesterday's post, the quote by Henry Miller, I have been praying to God. Not for myself, -I haven't done that in years- but for my family, my friends, and all who are suffering. But I know he doesn't hear me, and I know it's because he doesn't want to. A cry for help would do me no good. He wouldn't listen anyway.

    

    

I Don't Feel Much Like Writing.

"I have found God, but he is insufficient."

                          

   –Henry Miller

Serenity Prayer

Hope

 

I Sure Hope So...

Elisabeth*

My lovely Elisabeth,
     "I hate myself so much." I read those words back in January. You wrote them in a Facebook message. Because they were never vocalized, I never heard you say them. But that doesn't make them any less powerful.
     It is now November. Snow came and melted, sunshine warmed and cooled, and leaves changed and fell. The cycle continues. As I write this, icy snow is lying in the dead grass right outside my window. It's been nearly two years since I last saw you. It's crazy. I'm witnessing first hand how absence makes the heart grow fonder.
     I don't know what my point is in telling you these things. When I began this letter, I knew exactly what to write; that changed very quickly. I'm trying my very hardest to keep myself from deleting anything but typos in this post. This is only the third paragraph of your letter, but I already regret writing certain things. Let me expand on them.
     You were right, sis. I can't help you. I can't be the one who makes everything all better. I can't make you stop hating yourself. I can't make you smile or laugh, I can't make you try or hope, and I can't make you stop doing things that are destructive to you. All I can do is be here to support you. And so I will. If you fall, I'll help you get up. If you cry, I'll lend you my shoulder. If you feel alone, I'll send virtual hugs your way. I pray for you, I think of you, I hope for you, and I believe in you.
     We've been through so much in the time we've known each other. I've seen you completely break down, and I've seen you put yourself right back together. You've watched me lose it in every way possible, and youve watched me give recovery my all. I scribbled you little notes and left them on your bed. You came to the dayroom to visit me inbetween every single one of your groups. When you left, I felt so alone. Not because I didn't have other friends; I had wonderful friends. It was because none of them could replace you. Elisabeth, I'll never forget that time in the dayroom when Ms. Renee had left, and there was no other staff there, and I started digging into my arm with a paperclip. You were sitting next to me on the two-person couch that faced the windows. I tried to hide it; I tried not to let you see. To this day I don't know how you caught on, because I was doing it under my pink monkey blanket. But you did, and all you had to do to make me stop was say that you loved me. That's it. You were already having a horrible day. You had skipped your groups, you hadn't slept at all the night before, and you got supplemented at breakfast. You were so deeply depressed that you barely spoke the entire day. But you managed to help me in the midst of your misery. Anyway, what I'm trying to get at is this: You've always, always been there for me. I don't know why, but you are. Even when I said the most terrible things to you, and even when you didn't reply to any of my texts or Facebook messages, you were there. Sure, I've doubted that. Sometimes I've even doubted you. But when it's all said and done, you're still there for me, just like I'm still here for you.     
     You're my big sister, and you always will be. I'm getting choked up as I type this, and the letters on the screen are getting blurrier the more my eyes sting. You wouldn't believe how much I miss you, and you wouldn't believe how sorry I am that things turned out this way. Will we ever see each other again? This question seems to haunt me every time I think of you.

BREAKING NEWS! I just read your status that says:
"I am strong
I am loved
I am beautiful
I am hopeful
I am courageous
I am imperfect
I am free"

That is so very very true, darling.

Elisabeth, I love you. I wish I could come up with words that you'd believe. I'm not very good at that. So, for now, I love you and for always I love you.

[You are strong
You are loved
You are beautiful
You are hopeful
You are courageous
You are imperfect
You are free]

*name has been changed

"Love After Love" -Derek Walcott

The time will come when, with elation you will greet yourself arriving at your own door, in your own mirror and each will smile at the other's welcome, and say, sit here. Eat. You will love again the stranger who was your self. Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart to itself, to the stranger who has loved you all your life, whom you ignored for another, who knows you by heart. Take down the love letters from the bookshelf, the photographs, the desperate notes, peel your own image from the mirror. Sit. Feast on your life.

Marie*

Dearest Marie,
     I'm going to ask you some questions, even though I know the answer to each of them.Why do you this to yourself? Why can't you see what every one else sees in you? Why can't you stop? Why do you say you're in recovery when you're barely eating? Why hasn't treatment made you completely better? What's wrong? Why can't I fix it? Why do you still think you're a bad person? What makes you think it's okay to say such horrible things about yourself? Why won't you get more help? Why do you think you're fat? Why don't you believe that you're beautiful?
     Enough asking. Let me start telling. You need to stop punishing yourself for things that aren't even crimes. You need to be kind to yourself. You need to stop tricking yourself into thinking that you're okay. You're not okay. You're hurting yourself, and you don't even realize it. So, realize it, and stop hurting yourself. Marie, you are a wonderful person. You are my best friend, my sister, my roommate, and my inspiration. You are so many of the reasons why I am still here. You are beautiful. You are loved. You are special. You are strong. You are so much more than your diagnosis. You are so much more than your scars.
     We're in this together. Right? Right.
                                                                                     I love you.
                                                                                     -Erin.

*name has been changed

I Am A Wrecking Ball

I am a wrecking ball.
I am unworthy.
I am a burden.
I am weak.
I am a mistake.
I am hated.
I am a tyrant.
I am selfish.
I am a hidrance.
I am disgusting.
I am a fool.
I am dangerous.
I am a failure.
I am hopeless.
I am a fake.
I am cruel.
I am a loser.
I am evil.
I am a monster.
I am me.

Rambling...

Well, my friends, thus far, today has been a success. I averted an anxiety attack, threw away a staple with which I intended to hurt myself, ate a good amount of food for lunch, stayed out of the bathroom afterwards, and didn't have to leave my classroom. Let's count all of that as progress, shall we?
I don't know why I started blogging. Maybe I'm doing this instead of writing in a journal, or, perhaps I do this in hopes that sharing my experiences will make others feel less alone. I'm not really sure. Regardless, I like it. Hence, I will continue.

As some of you know, I ride a van to school. On both the front end and the back end, it conspicuosly states that it transports SCHOOL STUDENTS. I can't complain, though. There are a few kids in my class who ride short buses. Anyway, I was riding in my little van yesterday morning, headed to school, when, for no apparent reason, I freak. Yeah. Fun stuff. So for almost ten minutes I'm just sitting there with my legs up and my head down, crying and hyperventilating. I really thought I might die from overheating or hyperthermia or something of that sort. When Greg, the van driver, pulled up school, I decided I simply was not going to get off. If I did, the inconsiderate, apathetic, insensitive, and "normal" trolls of the highschool would ridicule me, which would, not only cause me to feel like an imbecile, but it would escalate the horrible sense of panic I was experiencing. So the only other person who rides the van at the same time I do, who also happens to be in my Therapeutic Emotionl Support class, went in the building to get my teacher, Miss Boone. She rocks, by the way. When Miss Boone came out, she got on the van and talked me through my anxiety until the bell rang and I could go inside without being seen. The rest of the day was alright, though.

I don't know, guys. I think I've just given up hope, but it's probably just for the time being. I really couldn't care less about recovery at this point. Sometimes, I don't even care about life. But that's nothing new; I've delt with those thoughts on and off for years.
I vote we end on a positive note. And, since I'm the only one voting, and since majority rules, I win.(: So, I'll leave you with a little quote.

"Anyone can give up, it's the easiest thing in the world to do. But to hold it together when everyone else would understand if you fell apart, that's true strength."

Short Post

     This has been a really rough week. And, unfortunately, it's only Wednesday. Although, except for one cutting incident, I've been handling my "emotional disregulation*" fairly well. If you're one of those people who spends a significant amount of time with me or talking to me, it won't be a shock to you that I had a few anxiety attacks. That's just how I roll. But I survived, obviously. I guess that's all that matters. I don't really feel like writing much else, so that's about it for now. Thanks for reading this.
   
*said by Carol