Tag Archives: bulimia


All the pre-election stress is kind of getting to me right now, unfortunately.

I got through a very long day, but I didn’t finish all the things I needed to finish.  I’ve already got a list of things to do tomorrow that I know I won’t get through, and I know my RFD and FO are just going to keep adding more and more to it.  And EVERYTHING is top priority.  They’re throwing things at me constantly.  One will ask me to do something that needs to be done ASAP, so I’ll stop what I was already working on to do the new task.  Then the other will ask me when I’m going to be finished with the first task.

To be fair, they’re not angry or mean about it or anything, and they’re working just as hard too.  And I think some of it’s due to my utter lack of working memory–I honestly cannot hold more than one thing in my mind at once without things falling through the cracks, and I’m being asked to hold 15 things in mind at once.

There’s also a power bill I can’t pay.  And I don’t know how I’m going to pay it next month either.  Every month, I’m just getting farther and farther underwater.

And I’m really triggered by a discussion on a forum that got taken over rape apologists who think it’s perfectly acceptable to make women totally responsible for rape prevention.  Seriously, if you ever feel the need to mansplain rape prevention, just fucking don’t.  And the mods/admins won’t do anything about it.  They don’t care that this is creating a hostile, triggering environment for survivors of abuse and rape.

And I’m pretty sure my PMDD is kicking in.

Right now I just want to do something, anything, to turn off all these fucking feelings.  I want to cut or OD or binge and purge, or something.  Just make it stop.



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Fuck It

Today I was supposed to have an appointment with the new case manager.  She never showed up.  I thought she was better than the old one, but apparently not.

I’d worked myself up to asking for more help.  I was going to tell her that I’m not sleeping and I’m severely depressed.  I was going to ask for therapy.  But then she didn’t bother to show up or call or anything, so fuck it.  I’m done trying.  I’m done looking for help.  I’m done trying to squeeze water from stones.

I’ll just stop even trying to get better.  I’ve tried and tried and tried, but I cannot do it without decent support.  So fuck it all.  I’ll just stay in my apartment, sleep all day, and binge and purge all night.  Clearly the people who could help don’t believe I’m worth saving, so why should I keep trying so hard?  I’m not important.  Eventually I’ll die–my heart will stop because of electrolyte imbalances, I’ll have a GI bleed, or my intestine will perforate.  A few people will be sad for a while, but overall the world won’t be any worse off when I’m dead.  I’m not contributing anything to society, so my absence won’t leave any big holes.  Just one less welfare queen.  Just one less pathetic loser who can’t function.  No big loss.  All I do is take money and resources that someone better than me could put to better use, someone who might actually do something useful with their life.  Spend that money on someone who matters, someone who can actually be saved.

Because I won’t be saved.  I could be, but apparently I don’t matter enough.  So for fuck’s sake, at least save someone.


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Right now I resent all the people out there who have support–friends, family, partners, therapists, whatever.  I know it makes me a terrible person; resenting what someone else has isn’t going to bring it into my life.  But they have people who love and care about them, who talk to them and touch them, who would notice if they were sick or sad or gone.  And I don’t, and it’s not fair.

What’s so bad about me that I don’t deserve those people?  And yes, I know that’s a logical fallacy; I know it’s not actually about deserving or not deserving.  But that just means the universe is cold and empty and doesn’t care that I can’t get my needs met.  So either way it’s ugly: either I’m too bad to deserve care or the universe doesn’t care if I exist.

I want somebody to hug me and hold me and talk to me and take care of me.  The world is too big and scary for me to deal with, but nobody notices I don’t leave my apartment or my room or my bed.  No one cares that the world is too much for me.

Since there’s no one to love me, I might as well die.  And that makes me a bad person too.

But I haven’t succeeded in killing myself yet.  Probably because I don’t really want to die–I want someone to notice and care that I hurt so much I want to die.  Because I want someone to take care of me…but eventually, I probably will kill myself because no one is going to love me.

In the meantime I’ve been purging again because words aren’t enough for how fucked up I am.


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“Who’s ‘you’ when
your own body is
your biggest enemy?

“If her own body
can’t recognize
her, how can she?”
Two Girls Staring at the Ceiling, Lucy Frank

I want out of my body.  I didn’t ask for this to happen.  They tell me I didn’t do anything wrong to cause it, but I’m the only one who has to suffer the consequences.  I did not sign up for this shit.

I’m not sure how much more I can take.

And not only am I sick ALL THE GODDAMN TIME, everyone either pities me or thinks I’m faking.

Or they just act like I don’t even exist.  Tonight, a dinner before the wedding.  I knew almost no one.  My mother introduced her husband to everyone, but not me.  I guess I’m not important enough to introduce.  No one talked to me.  I was sitting next to a family friend who had a stroke, whose entire vocabulary is “yes,” “no,” and “damn.”  I’m pretty sure he said more than me.  My mother kept checking to see if he was okay…but not me.

There was also NOTHING on the menu I could eat.  So I just got to sit there and watch everybody else eat.  That and cry in the bathroom.

It’s like I don’t exist.  They’d probably all be happier if I didn’t.  I’m the fucked-up sister, the sick sister, the crazy sister, the crippled sister, the sister covered in ugly fucking scars, the sister with no social skills, the useless failure sister.

I want to slice myself up so I don’t have to feel all of this.  If I had a blade I would.  I could take apart my razor, but then I’d be hairy for the next 2 weeks.

But I don’t matter to anyone, and I can’t deal with the feelings.

I do have a bunch of food, so I guess I could binge and purge.  Because that’s a GREAT idea when my digestive system is already fucked up.  But I have to do SOMETHING.

I’m trying to convince myself I don’t need to do anything stupid but it’s not working.  I know some of it is hormones but that doesn’t help either.  I just can’t deal with this.  I never should’ve come.  My sister probably didn’t even really want me here, and I couldn’t really afford this trip.  I’m so fucking stupid.  What made me think any of them could ever love me?


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Feeling Unwanted

FO called me last night to see if I wanted to go to the opening of the new campaign office in our end of the state.  I thought it would be good to get out, and that’s something I could do mostly sitting down, so I said yes.  He said he’d call me in the morning and come pick me up.

He didn’t.

So now I feel pretty horrible.  I feel unwanted.  I feel like everyone hates me and wishes I’d just disappear or die so they wouldn’t have to deal with me anymore.  I feel like cutting.  I feel like purging.  I’m not quite suicidal, but I wish I could die.

And then I feel crazy for feeling this way.  I know I’m overreacting.  Probably something came up at the last minute, so he couldn’t pick me up or go.  And even if it were true that he didn’t want me around, that can’t possibly be true of everyone.  Hell, the vast majority of people in the world don’t know me, and it’s generally pretty hard to hate someone if you’re not even aware that they exist.  I know it’s crazy to go from “One person failed to give me a ride to an event” to “Everyone hates me and wishes I were dead.”  That’s a HUGE leap.  It’s even a big leap to go from “FO didn’t come get me for the office opening” to “FO hates me and doesn’t want to deal with me.”  He’s always been nice to me.  We’re not best friends or anything, but we’ve always been friendly.  So it’s probably not even true that he doesn’t like me.

But none of those rational arguments make me feel any better.  I still feel like everyone hates me and wants me to die, and I still feel like hurting myself to dull the feelings.  I still feel like I shouldn’t exist at all.

I think I’m going to take a nap instead because otherwise I probably will end up purging or cutting.


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I Hate Conflict

I know that probably strikes people who know me casually as a weird statement.  I love to fight with people.  I work in politics, which is about as adversarial as you can get.  I’ve been sworn at and threatened more than a few times, and I just laugh it off.  I have a strong background in martial arts, even though I’m no longer physically able to practice.

What I can’t deal with is interpersonal conflict.  I hate upsetting people and/or feeling like they’re angry at me.

There was a situation on Facebook earlier today.  It’s been several hours, and my heart is still racing.  I can’t calm myself down.

I have these two friends.  Sam and I have known each other for probably twelve years, maybe longer.  She has a mental illness and MS that causes difficulties typing (among other things), so she often types in shorthand.  Holly is a friend from college who also struggles with mental illness, and she often comments on my posts about invisible illness, since mental illness is also invisible and people struggling with it are often discriminated against.  Sam and Holly don’t know each other, but I would’ve assumed they could relate on the basis of those shared experiences, although to be fair I don’t know if Holly is aware of Sam’s MS.  But Sam has talked about it in comments on my posts that Holly has also commented on, so I vaguely assumed she knew.

Sam commented on one of my posts (unrelated to any physical or mental illness), and her comment was in shorthand; e.g., “4” instead of “for,” no capitalization.  Several hours later, Holly commented in response, saying postmodern English should be classified as a new language.  I read it as kind of bitchy–it was unrelated to the post or Sam’s comment, and in my reading sounded like it was mocking Sam. 

I said, “Sam uses shorthand because she has a disability that often makes it difficult to type.”

Holly’s response: “Okay, but I had to read it three times to understand it.”

“At the risk of sounding like an asshole…if you don’t like it, no one’s forcing you to read it.”

At that point, Holly private messaged me and said I did come off sounding like an asshole.  Fair enough–I’m pretty talented at that.  I told her I couldn’t find a more diplomatic way of saying it that still conveyed the point, and I repeated that Sam physically cannot type well most of the time.  Holly said she’d been trying to be humorous, and I said I was sorry, I had misinterpreted the tone, which is easy to do in text.  She said something to the effect of, “I won’t make you put up with me anymore,” which felt kind of passive-aggressive, but I tried to cut her some slack because I know what it’s like to genuinely feel like people don’t want to have to put up with me.  I said I had overreacted and didn’t mean to sound like I liked Sam better than her.  She said she’d lay off commenting for a few days, and I said I understood and left it at that.

But now I’m feeling a whole mess of tangled emotions.  I’m still angry because I feel like once I pointed out to Holly that Sam types the way she does because of a disability, she should’ve apologized, or at least stopped arguing the point.  Her original comment felt snide and judgmental to me.  I can accept that it was an attempt at humor, but that doesn’t mean it’s not still judgmental.  There’s this sort of educated elitism I see happening, and I’m not exempt from it–I’ll admit that I judge some people based on their [lack of] grammar, particularly if they’re habitual offenders.  But I’m also aware that there are a number of disabilities that can cause it.  People with dyslexia can struggle a lot with spelling and grammar.  People with various physical disabilities like MS or rheumatoid arthritis can have difficulty with the physical act of typing.  Dictation programs used by visually impaired people often switch homonyms homophone like you’re/your and there/their/they’re.  Hell, even iPhone’s Siri can come up with some weird transliterations–at a political even, my RFD dictated a text saying “All of the parking lot,” but what Siri came up with was, “I love the parking lot,” which confused the hell out of the guy he was texting.  (We joked that we should adopt that as a social media hashtag for the two western/central Mass regions.)  So it made me angry that Holly, who struggles with her own experience of invisible illness, would continue to argue the point after I told her that Sam’s way of typing was due to an illness rather than willful ignorance.

But it’s very possible that I overreacted.  I can see how “If you don’t like it, no one’s making you read it” could be hurtful, even though that wasn’t my intent.  I feel guilty for hurting Holly’s feelings and making her feel like I don’t like her.

Then I feel frustrated because I feel like I can’t tell Holly what my thoughts/feelings were or what I was trying to communicate.  I saw that I’d hurt her, and I figured that trying to defend or even explain my point of view would seem defensive and make her feel more hurt.  But how do I express my feelings?  Where can I say that it felt like she was mocking my friend for bending grammar to accommodate her disability?  When do I get to say that even though she was trying to be funny, it didn’t come across that way, and I jumped in because I didn’t want Sam to be hurt by her comment?  How do I explain that I felt defensive because I’ve been judged and had snide comments made about my disability?

I don’t know how to balance it all.  I hurt Holly because I was trying to keep Sam from feeling hurt, and I set my own feelings aside because I wanted to make Holly feel heard and mitigate the hurt I caused her.  I knew that an argument with Holly probably wouldn’t get her to see my point because who can see clearly when they’re already hurt?  That’s not Holly’s fault.  But how do I meet my own emotional needs?  I want to feel like my point of view is heard too.  I want Holly not to make comments that might hurt Sam, or anyone else with a disability.  I want to stop feeling like a terrible person for hurting Holly.  I want to feel like I’m not being a crazy, fucked-up drama queen for feeling upset by the whole situation.  And I do not know how to do any of that.

So now I’m struggling with urges to self-harm and to binge and purge.  Partly to punish myself/ease my guilt, but mostly to deaden the storm of uncomfortable feelings.  I know they’re not actually intolerable, but it sure as hell feels that way right now.  I’m trying to breathe normally and slow down my racing heart, with very limited success.  I really, really hate this.


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Mixed Bag

Therapy today was frustrating. First I was (accidentally) locked out of the office and left standing out in the cold, which feels like a metaphor for something.

Then I just didn’t want to talk. About anything…but I made the mistake of telling A that I feel totally stuck and alone, and she zeroed in on the alone part. She kept naming people and asking if I felt connected to them and asking when I last felt connected and so on. And I just wanted to scream, “SHUT UP STOP TALKING CANT YOU TELL I DONT WANT TO TALK ABOUT THIS YOU ARE JUST MAKING ME FEEL WORSE.” But of course I didn’t. I just shrugged a lot and said, “I don’t know!” With mounting frustration. It wasn’t quite true–if I’d looked I would’ve known, but I just can’t stand to look at myself right now.

The whole rest of the day, I’ve wanted to binge and purge. I’ve been wanting to do that for the last few days, actually, out of nowhere, and the urges just intensified after therapy. Everything just feels so wrong and sick and I’m way too full of all of it. I need to empty it all out because everything inside me is wrong.

It probably also doesn’t help that it’s a bad pain day and a bad poop day. I’ve been crapping orange for days, and I don’t know why. Is it bad that I hope something is wrong and I’ll just die? Lots of things are definitely wrong, they’re just not wrong enough to kill me yet.

But on the good new front, my old apartment complex finally returned my security deposit, so I have an extra $975. So tomorrow if I feel up to it, I’m going to the bank and then dress shopping. B and I are also planning a road trip to Alabama for my sister’s wedding–B is big on road trips. Last summer he wanted me to go on a cross-country road trip with a couple of his college buddies, but I wasn’t up for that. This’ll be more manageable, and it should be fun.


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Screw Beautiful!



This post has been percolating for a while, but I was inspired to finally write it by this post by Ashley at Nourishing the Soul, which is a response to Elyse’s post at Skepchick.


I don’t want to be beautiful.

Much like Elyse, I’m sick of being bombarded by social media posts and graphics telling me I’m beautiful and should love myself.  Most of the people posting these things have never met me, so I could be butt-ugly for all they know.  But even if I were, say, Liv Tyler, it wouldn’t matter because I don’t WANT to be beautiful.  I’m okay with it, and I wish my culture could come to terms with it.

I get that the point of all those images and posts is to tell women that they have value even if they don’t match society’s narrowly-constructed paradigm of attractiveness.  I get that poor body image, eating disorders, and self-hate are serious and widespread problems among women.*  But we’re doing a disservice to ourselves and other women by saying, “You’re beautiful just the way you are!” and leaving it at that.  It just affirms that appearance is the most important thing, that women are only valuable as objects to be gazed upon.

I’ll acknowledge my privilege here: I fit into mainstream standards of attractiveness.  Most of the time I don’t hide it anymore, but it’s not what I want people to notice most about me.  I’m smart, quick, and witty.  I’m funny, with a flair for sarcasm, satire, and wordplay.  I’m passionate about many issues and love to debate, and I get involved with issues that matter to me.  I’m creative, a skilled writer, a talented knitter.  I’m good with kids and animals.  I care about people, and I’m fiercely loyal to the ones I love.  These are all aspects of myself that I value much more than my looks.  They’re the kinds of things I look for in other people, and I hope they’re the things other people see in me.

It’s not that I hate my body.  I did, for a long time.  I was taught as a kid that my needs were unacceptable, that they were too much, that I didn’t deserve to have them or meet them.  I hated my body for needing food, sleep, warmth, love.  I punished it with self-harm and eating disorders.  Even when I stopped harming my body, I still resented it for making me weak and needy.

But now I’m at peace with my body.  I don’t hate it for existing, and I don’t see my self as separate from it anymore.  I don’t love my body.  Realistically, I probably never will; there’s been too many feelings of betrayal and too much self-abuse.  But I’m okay with my body.  That’s enough for me.

Ironically, it was getting seriously, chronically ill that let me be okay with my body.  At first I was angry–my body had betrayed me again!  I couldn’t control what my body was doing, I was in unbelievable pain, and I was stuck with a lifelong illness.  I went from doing kung fu three times a week and walking almost everywhere I went to having to quit kung fu and needing a nap after a 30-minute walk.  The fatigue was so bad I could barely function.

Acceptance snuck up on me.  I found myself feeling grateful when I could still feel my muscles stretch as I moved, when my legs could still hold me up.  Some days I’m even grateful I’ve been able to keep my colon so far!  I still have my angry, resentful days (mostly during flares!), but overall I’m much more accepting of my body, ulcers and limitations and all.



*I know these things are also an issue for men, genderqueer, and non-binary folks, but I won’t presume to speak to their experience.  I’m writing from my experience as a cis-woman, and that seems to be the group to which most of these messages are directed.


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