Tuesday, April 17, 2012

Why

They always want to know why you've hurt yourself. At the very least they want to know why. And today with my second set of stitches in three days my doctor asked if there was anything specific I wanted to talk to him about as to 'why'. He's such a nice guy and I know he genuinely cares... I feel rather badly about give him the same old 'Oh, so many different things' answer that really tells him nothing at all. But the problem is they're all so stupid. I suppose that only matters so much (if it matters at all) since, stupid or not, they still land me in the ER (Sunday evening) or the doctors office (today).

I've got to make myself tell these people 'why'. Even if it is stupid. *shakes head* I've just got to figure out how to get it out...

Monday, April 9, 2012

Proof You Have An Eating Disorder # 17

You are not only critical of your own weight and appearance ( regarding appearance, how heavy you look in addition to what the scale says) as well as that of those around you (everyone, really), you notice you are now critical of the 'over generous' curves of your character on a Facebook game (which are probably not that over generous to begin with).

*shakes head* God help me.

Thursday, April 5, 2012

Please

It's a word I've carved on my body several times before, in several different places. It usually means the same thing each time, though what that is I cannot say for sure.

Please.

Please, make it stop.

Please, I do not want to feel this way any longer.

Please, I would like these thoughts/urges to go away.

Please.

Yesterday and today I have been bombarded with an abnormal number of suicide related thoughts (abnormal for me anyway). Overdose. Slit my wrists. These thoughts are not uncommon for me. Most days one or the other (or both) will flit through my mind at least once. But today they come with something else. A longing. I feel so Awful. Today I am longing to give in, if only to make it stop. What makes it that much worse is that I cannot. I want it desperately, but I cannot.

Please.

Please make it stop.

Or else please, let me go.

Saturday, March 31, 2012

Borderline moment ahead. You have been warned.

Don't worry it's not that bad.

 Anyway.

So maybe I just quit writing. Or maybe you quit telling me you're going to read and respond if you're not really going to. I don't handle it well. Every time something like this happens (and not just with you) I start to question: 'Did I do something? Are they mad? What could I have done? Damn, I suck!' and on and on. It makes no sense, I know that, but I still do it. Heck, last week I skipped church because I hadn't heard anything about worship rehearsal and so I start with 'Well they must not want me to play. No surprise I'm not that good lately and my voice has been effected by all this purging. Still that's really not fair; they should have told me.' and blah blah blah.

 So. Given that I do this often enough without your help... could you just quit? Or at least, if it's just that your busy, let me know you're still intending to get back to me? Or if you are too overwhelmed, that's alright you know. I know this is unreasonable and stupid. But I just can't help it. I'm Borderline. However reluctantly.

Monday, March 26, 2012

Identity Disturbance

A couple of my musings as of late seem to fall under the same theme. With that in mind I have decided to spare you all several separate posts on essentially the same thing and combine them in to one, longer post. Aren't you lucky ;)

__________________________________________________________________

Pieces

Right now I feel a little like I am trying to put together a puzzle (which, by the way, is one of my least favorite past times). Never having been very good at them I am easily frustrated because I am making almost no headway at all. There's a reason for that, I have discovered. It seems that what I have been given to work with is not one whole puzzle. It feels as if I have been given a box of mismatched pieces. Wooden pieces, cardboard pieces, foam pieces. Big, small, and in between. Round and square edges. As you might have guessed it doesn't work very well. Oh some of the pieces match. There's an eye here, a watering can there. But there's nothing with which to make a picture. What makes it that much worse is that the puzzle and the jumble of mismatched pieces is my life. I'm trying to put together a (WHOLE, WORKING) person from this mish-mosh of things and I have no idea how to do it. And at this time, it seems, I am doing it mostly on my own.
_______________________________________________________________

What I Really Need

Sometimes I think what I really need is a stylist, not a therapist. In my attempt to piece together an identity I keep landing on my 'look'. I don't know, it's almost as if I feel that if I can get a handle on that it will help somehow. I believe in a previous post I mentioned that I recently came to the conclusion that my brother, sister, and I had little choice but to become the people we did and that in my case at least it is not necessarily who I am. And that includes 'look'. Mine, before, was what I have referred to as 'regionally casual' (the region would be 'identifying information' which I try to keep to a minimum). It fit with my family. But it doesn't seem to have fit with me. I know how to dress that part. I know how to act that part. But I think, I feel that it is simply that. A part. Just another Mask. And I'm so tired of masks. They serve a purpose, I know, but can I be honest? They hurt. They really do. Like smiling can hurt (How Smiling Can Hurt) so can employing a mask.

Only problem now is... having come to the conclusion that I am not this 'regionally casual' person... who am I? I have some of those pieces. I love my Converse (I won't tell you how many pair I own; I am sure there are people with more but it's still pretty sad in my opinion). My glasses (which I recently decided I liked the look of better than my contacts) are rectangular, black, and bold. My bangs (also a new discovery) are cut low and (mostly) straight across (they get a little longer as they go out, if you understand my meaning). But for the most part I have no real clue and no idea how to figure it all out. I have to stumble across it, it seems, and that could very well take too long.

*shakes head* It sounds so absolutely trivial and yet it feels so very vital...

Sunday, March 25, 2012

Je ne sais pas

There is a solemnity with which I go about things most days, any more. Tinged with melancholy it at times seems to contain a sense of finality as well. Beyond that it is very difficult to describe.

I first noticed it some three months past, at the end of December. Just three weeks ago I experienced something very similar. And now here we are again. If I am to be honest the solemnity and it's tinge of melancholy are present as often as not any more. What makes these three instances different (three months ago, December, three weeks ago, the beginning of March, and now) is the sense of preparing for something, and the sense of finality. This time around the reason for the sense of finality is vague and I have a feeling that I am reticent to admit it to myself. And the other two times..? To be honest it was a sense of impending death. My own. By my own hand.

My suicide.

At neither time did I have an actual plan, apart from the 'If I did it I'd do it this way'. There was no (real) intent. Each time it was simply a feeling that it was coming and that what I was doing was in some way preparation. I cannot recall what that preparation was three months ago. Three weeks ago it was, among other things, I'm sure, a good cleaning of the apartment, something I hadn't done in ages.. This time (because let's face it; the reason for this sense of finality now is the same as the two times before, whether or not I want to admit it to myself), along with some basic tidying up, it was a purge of my closet and dresser. I filled one large black trash bag with cloths for Goodwill and ended up with three plastic grocery bags of clothing that needs thrown out. Now, to be fair, it was all clothing that I never wore and/or that no longer fit. But the act in and of itself may not be as important as the melancholic solemnity with which it was done and the sense of finality with which it was accompanied.

This time, however, I am ambivalent to the idea of my suicide. This ambivalence confuses me a little, in light of the aforementioned sense of finality. I worry that this sense of ambivalence will not be enough of a protective factor, however, and a time may come in the not too distant future when I finally say 'Enough, I'm done' and, without plan, give in.

Friday, March 23, 2012

Proof You Have An Eating Disorder #157 (a totally arbitrary number btw... you will not find 156 more on this blog)

You order from a different pizza establishment because you are afraid that the folks at your regular one will notice just how often you have been ordering from them lately. The fact that they will most likely not care in the slightest does not matter. Because... what if they notice how often you've been ordering from them lately?


And if you want to know, Dominos is superior to Pizza Hut in every way but one: this pizza is so greasy I should have little trouble with the next phase of this operation. TMI? Sorry *blush*

Thursday, March 22, 2012

Piercing Tip

For those of you who are considering an upper (cartilage) ear piercing have them use the hoop, not the stud. There's a little disk on the back of the stud, it's not a ball on either side and it makes it hard to clean well. With my first upper ear piercing I had the hoop and didn't have any problems with it. This second one was with a stud and I just got back from a doctors appointment where I got a Rx for both a topical antibiotic and an oral antibiotic. Fun times.

Nothing to do with my blog really, just thought I'd share *shrug*

Mumford & Sons, After the Storm




Oh my gosh I love it! From 'Sigh No More', I can't say it's my favorite but only because I just love the whole album!!

To Come

You know what I'm trying to do? I'm trying to figure out a life, make a whole (functioning) person out of a bunch of pieces; only none of them match. They all belong to different puzzles; there's no continuity. Now how the hell am I supposed to do that, I'd like to know? Different puzzle pieces. Different people, yet one person. *shakes head* For the love of all that is good, why?

And all the time plagued by the desire, not to die, just not to be alive.

New therapist.

And oh my lord, my weight! Don't even get me started (actually you'd maybe prefer not to on this matter?). Let me tell you, eating disorders are not one of the most fun disorders a person can have, lol

Good things to come, my friends (all four of you, lol). I hope anyway. You know how I write. In fits and starts. Go me!

Wednesday, March 21, 2012

Implicitly

Probably the biggest difference was the fact that he actually cared. Not only did he care but it was an implicit sort of caring; a caring that was evident from the start and did not need to be put in to words. If you want my opinion (and you're going to get it anyway, lol) if you feel you need to actually tell a person that you care... you probably don't. At least, not in the way most valuable.

Funny it was also sort of a sticking point for me, at times. More than once I wanted to look at him, sigh in exasperation (mixed with a bit of perplexity, I must admit) and say 'Oh, R-, why do you even care so much?'. Of course I never asked because I figured I already knew the answer, at least in part. Because if I were him (he? it's a good thing no one reads this the spelling errors, typos, and incorrect English would be enough to cause many to tear their hair out by the roots, lol) I would first ask whether or not the questioner would care were our situations reversed. My answer (the real me, not the 'role reversal me') would be that of course I would care... but it's different. Really it would be a long conversation and I would be left simply with, 'Yes, but, it's different...', knowing that it really is not.

Actually, that's the biggest reason this is so hard. Because he cared, without having to assure me of that fact.

So, if you should ever read this, thank you for caring.

Implicitly.

Monday, March 12, 2012

The Harder I'll Fall

I need to head over the mountains this week. I've made promises that I really should keep. I've told several people I am coming. My only hope is the weather and frankly it doesn't look promising.

So I will put it off. I will fight against this feeling, this need to fall. I feel it coming. The Fall. (Not to be confused with The Fall, as in Adam and Eve) I feel it's imminent. I've fought against it before and each time it gets closer and closer. And now I feel that if I fight it too much more, if I resist any longer...

The Fall will be that much harder.

Wednesday, February 8, 2012

Stuck

Apparently next time I am supposed to expound on 'stuck' (don't you love how I just jump in with out telling you what 'next time' is? You're welcome ;) ). There is just one problem though... I'm no sure there's much more to say about 'stuck'.

When you're emotional you let your guard down. It's a hazard, if you ask me. When you're emotional and your guard is down you say things such as 'Yes but Lot was stuck in a city he didn't want to be in; I am stuck in a life I don't want to be in.' I'm just glad I didn't come off suicidal or I might not have been writing this for another 72 hours or so. I exploded (for me anyway) with the information that I have, on several occasions, asked God to erase me. He won't. I cannot take care of the problem (the problem being my continued existence) myself; I still care about how my killing myself would effect those I care about and who care about me. Since I cannot at this time off myself and God will not take pity on me here in my misery by erasing me from existence, from time and memory, I am stuck. Simple as that.

Actually the first time this really became a problem I phrased it 'done but stuck'. Simple enough: I was done with life but for one reason or another was stuck and, as my therapist at the time put it, either 'unable or unwilling' to kill myself. And here I find myself again (no surprise there; I seem to be headed down the same path I was on my last year of school). I'm done. I'm so freaking tired of all this. I do not want to live the next 40, 50 (heck with my grandparents and great grandma counted in here I could very well live another 60 years, God forbid *shudders *) feeling this way. Most nights it's bad enough knowing I have to wake up in the morning. I'm just done.

Part of my problem, I think, is Before. Not before the depression (which has been a problem for something like half my life, give or take). Not before the eating disorder (which first made it's presence quietly known during my first two quarters of University -I was 19-). Not even necessarily before the cutting (this little 'habit' which would grow from 'just' cutting and self injury -making a distinction between 'self injury' and 'self harm'- to include burning bruising, and in some ways some of the ED behaviors as well and so go from 'just' self injury to self harm). It is the memory of Before. Before I broke. Before I became this full fledged mess that I am today. Before, when people could still count on me. Before, when I had dreams and believed that I could attain them. Before, when I had hope and a future. Before, when I was beat up, scratched up, and bruised, but still whole.

Before.

Now, now I am stuck. Stuck with the thoughts in my head. Thoughts that torture me. Ideas that haunt me. Stuck with the knowledge that I am not who they think I am, not even close. Stuck living some other persons life. It is not mine. I don't even know who I really am (one more bit of torture, something else to drive me toward the bottom of the Pit) so how could it be my life? I suppose, if this is the case then I do? Who would want to live that way?

Not this girl.

I cried last night. I cried as I apologized to God for giving in (and so bringing much of this on myself). I cried as I apologized for losing hope. I cried as I apologized for allowing myself to slip so far that I do not want even to live any more and for not wanting to get back to the place where I do.

I am tired. I am done. But damn it...

I am stuck.



(had to stop this one, it's starting to ramble... my head isn't quite right for writing at the moment, sorry folks. I know you were holding your breath from some class 'A' writing ';))

Tuesday, January 24, 2012

Oh Dear Lord

I'm going to attempt to just rant. Most of the time that probably isn't a good idea; who wants to read that, right? But for now I'm jut trying to get some things out. So many thoughts swirling around in my head, most not completely formed but still they seem to have the power to drive me mad.

Heh, already I can't do it. I write, I rarely rant or ramble. Damn.

Just now a lot of it had to do with my weight, I think. Folks, especially family, telling me to not lose any more. Excuse me, there's still WAY too much fat on this body. Just because all (OK most, seriously, there's one or two adults in the family who are not overweight and many of those who are would be considered obese; I was, once) of you are fat doesn't mean I have to be any longer. I was once before; that doesn't mean I cannot be thin. There is no rule that states that once you have been fat you must stay that way to some degree. I want to be thin, that's all. OK so I know that a person needs some fat on their body and that's fine; they do not need the pockets of fat that I still have, the fat that I still want to be rid of. A lot of healthy people in this world do not have fat like I do. Ugh when I was home for Christmas my mom actually said something to me about it. She wouldn't have, had never before, if it were not for my stupid sister who was really not so much worried about my weight loss (I had not lost an unreasonable amount between Christmas and the last time I had seen her) as the fact that she is falling further and further behind; I am getting thinner (BMI wise I am no longer considered overweight even) and she is still fat. One cousin (whom I hadn't seen since the beginning of the summer) asked me if I was starving myself *rolls eyes*. There was no logical basis for that question. For all they should guess I'm losing it in a healthy way (we know that I am not but there is no reason for them to suspect otherwise). Even my step mom said something, though not to me directly, she said something to my brother. What the hell is wrong with you people? I've got the document on my computer to prove that there should be no reason for your suspicions! The fact that you're all more or less correct doesn't matter, you've got no reason to be guessing it to begin with!

Huh. Once I get going I guess it is not so impossible for me to rant. Good to know.

What else? This is where the thoughts become less completely formed and more just vague ideas and torturous feeling. Lord I'm going nuts.I feel awful. I'm very easily brought to tears (not that I give in most of the time but they are there). I feel really really really lousy. I'm so tired of this all, I don't want to do it any more. I feel hopeless, like I will always be stuck here. Like life will just be one long roller coaster; sometimes I'll be better than others but there will always be another plunge ahead, back to the Pit. I don't want to do that for the rest of my life! *tear* It struck me just recently too that part of why there may be no real hope is that it has been too long. Too long that I have been allowed to go with little to no treatment, and none of it adequate, none of it what it should be for someone such as myself. And I wonder if there isn't some sort of correlation between length of time before appropriate treatment and chance of recovery? I mean I know that personality disorders... you don't actually recover from them. But you can learn to live with them, deal with them, have a life in spite of them. But I wonder if at some point a person doesn't just get used to being &#$%ed up. What is it, a negative correlation?, where one thing goes one way and the other goes, well, the other way. So as length of time between onset and appropriate treatment becomes increases the probability of successful treatment decreases..? *@#%ing hell *sob*




Oh, somebody read this... somebody help...

Wednesday, January 18, 2012

The Question

I believe the question was 'Do you want anything to change?'. No attitude. No sarcasm. Just an honest question. My answer? I want a lot of things to change. What I didn't tell him is that I don't have a lot of hope for it.

I saw R- again today. I'm not sure I've mentioned but he now works at my doctors office as a 'behavioral health consultant'. All well and good but I'm afraid it will not do me much good. His job consists of behavioral activation sorts of things. You're depressed and not doing much? Get out and do something, regardless of the pull to stay in bed. All well and good, really, but not so helpful when you 'want a lot of things to change'; when you need a lot of things to change. Identifying, experiencing, and sharing emotions won't help that, at least not at first. And as he's suggesting this and that I'm already stressing out over the distress such things would cause. Lately it has been harder to handle distress, you see. The other day I swear every five minutes I wanted to pop a bunch of pills. Not enough that I'd buy the farm. Just some. Lord, just not giving in, wanting to so badly every five minutes... I thought I was going to die (and was honestly a little disappointed it wasn't possible).

Do I want anything to change? Of course I do.

But with the limited help available to me...

I'm running out of hope.

Friday, January 13, 2012

I Can't

No, I can't do it. If someone (and in this case I mean a medical or mental health professional) guesses that would be one thing. But I cannot tell someone myself. Going on a week my heart has been skipping a beat several times a day at least (no flutter here it literally stops for a second and then seems to remember that it is supposed to be doing something and then starts up again). Yesterday I experienced a not quite sharp (but closer to sharp than not) pain around my sternum that seemed to radiate back to behind my right shoulder blade (it might have lasted a few minutes). But oh my lord I cannot possibly answer some of these questions!

What to expect from your doctor

Your doctor or other health care provider is likely to ask you a number of questions, such as:

*How long have you been worried about your weight?
*Do you exercise? How often do you exercise and for how long?
*Have you found any other ways to lose weight?
*Are you having any physical symptoms?
*Have you ever vomited because you were uncomfortably full?
*Have others expressed concern that you're too thin?
*Do you think about food often?
*Do you ever eat in secret?
*Have any of your family members ever had symptoms of an eating disorder or have any been diagnosed with an eating disorder?

© 1998-2012 Mayo Foundation for Medical Education and Research (MFMER). All rights reserved. A single copy of these materials may be reprinted for noncommercial personal use only. "Mayo," "Mayo Clinic," "MayoClinic.com," "EmbodyHealth," "Enhance your life," and the triple-shield Mayo Clinic logo are trademarks of Mayo Foundation for Medical Education and Research.

I already know I'm mental, honestly, these questions could very well have me curled up in a corner, incommunicado.

Oh lord I can't do it.

Monday, January 9, 2012

I Don't Have an Eating Disorder. Riiiiight.

Wow, talk about fooling yourself.

Recently I was at a church gathering where I was 'lucky' enough to be used as an example. My friend (who also happens to lead the group) was talking about the power of words at that point and happened to mention my dislike of certain words. I dislike food words. (For the record I also really like certain 'odd' words, mostly words with a 'hard' sound to them) And not just any food words mind you. I dislike words that describe food in a positive manner.I mean, what ever happened to just saying 'This tastes good'? It's perfectly adequate. Why the need for all this 'tasty' (*shudder* my least favorite by the way) and 'delicious' and what have you. Don't get me wrong I'm all for expressing yourself and I can be very picky about word choice in other matters but with food... let's just call it 'good' and leave it along, shall we?

Now for the longest time my response to the question 'Why?' re:my dislike of positive food words has been 'I don't know, I just don't. You'd think I had an eating disorder or something -insert laugh here-' Makes sense, I suppose, if you're trying to throw someone off your trail, right? Except I wasn't. I was totally serious, totally genuine. And the other day I sat there thinking the same thing 'I don't know, I just don't. You'd think I had a ...' HELLO! How many times did I throw up just yesterday (I actually can't tell you... about half a dozen I'd say, give or take... there was some major binging going on)?? How often do I engage in such behaviors as purging (a binge does not have to be involved) or other compensatory methods? How often do I restrict? Are you freaking kidding me?

Now in my defense I'm neither that dense nor am I in that much denial; not completely anyway. This is the most of any of this sort of behavior I have EVER engaged in. Not even the initial episode when I first started University was this bad. Not even close(makes sense; bulimia, which is what this first started out as, often doesn't make an appearance until the persons late teens/early twenties and most of these things start off slowly). And once I stopped I very rarely engaged in any sort of ED behavior over the next six or seven years(nothing huge anyway, I know I 'flirted' with it throughout that time period). So I just figured it had simply been a 'phase'. 'Everyone experiments in college', right? My 'experiment' had been with inappropriate means of weight loss; it wasn't an eating disorder, it was a phase. It wasn't until these last couple years that I decided maybe I was wrong (though if I am to be honest it is probably more recent still that I finally admitted that I could fit the criteria for an ED).

It was actually yesterday that I realized the other day that my dislike of such words actually began about the same time as everything else did. So it has been with me all along, has it not? Oh sure, it has mostly lain dormant these past few years. A binge and purge there, knowingly taking in a few less calories than I should here; and a strange dislike of all but the most mundane words to describe food in a positive manner.

Interesting.

Friday, January 6, 2012

Who is this girl?

My name, my age, and my social security number. Of those things you can be quite sure. Oh maybe a few things more like my parentage, and my height and such. But who is this girl, really?

It came to my attention recently that my appearance changes with my mood. Not slight shifts in my mood. Not even from my 'normal' depression to those rare (and all to few and far between) moments of Normal. Drastic changes in my mood, however, come with a change of appearance. Of course this is only based on one and now two times this has happened. The first time was my last year of school. It was also a year, all melodrama aside, I almost did not finish, one I almost did not make it through.

For any real in-depth information regarding that Year From Hell you can look at my old blog, Thoughts and Musings of a Girl... Interrupted, if you would like.. For now I will try and be as brief as possible (which considering how long winded I tend to be might not be very, *blush*).

Before that year I was what I call Regionally Conservative (as I try my best to keep identifying information from my blogs I cannot tell you what region that is but I will give you that it is west coast USA). There's not a whole lot else to say about that. Actually a lot of my cloths tended to come from Old Navy. I wore very little (if any) make up, my jewelry was minimal, and body art (save for a piercing in each ear lobe) was nonexistent. I did dye my hair from it's original color but nothing outrageous. Color palate wise I did tend more toward dark colors though for no conscious reason I could ever put my finger on.

Fast forward to that last year of school. By then I had already added another piercing (nothing crazy for a young woman) and one tattoo (easily covered if I felt so inclined, and meaningful in several ways so that I would not regret it later). One more tattoo, another piercing in each lobe and one in my tongue, some fire engine red in my hair, black nail polish, rather less conventional clothing, and heavy make up... there exists one photo from that period literally my own mother said she would not have recognized me had she not known any better..

These few years since I have toned it down a little. The fire engine red is gone from my hair. So is the tongue ring (there's a bit of a story behind that... maybe I'll tell it one of these days. I rather regret taking it out to be honest) and I am once again back to wearing little to no makeup (too much of a hassle).

But I'm headed back down to the depths of the Pit again and I once again find myself wanting to change my appearance. I want to drastically change my hair and add more color to it (another unconventional color along the lines of the fire engine red I loved so much before). But really what with the 'big change' last time, the fact that I never really did revert back to my original Regional Conservative style from before and what I am leaning toward right now... I wonder, was the Regional Conservative girl really me?

Lately I am wondering if we children (those in my immediate family) had no choice but to grow up in to the adults we have become, style and all... even if that is not truly who we are. We grew up in what I have always referred to as a 'large town' and were really rather sheltered. Mom is conservative and dad is a controlling, abusive ass who has definite opinions about how his children should look (just telling it like it is, folks).

I am in my late 20s and I have really no idea who I am. Why not? This is ridiculous. I only know that I do not think I am who everyone else believes me to be.

Once a couple friends were over and one noted that it was a little funny (not his word but it has been a few years and I cannot remember exactly what he said) that I had a pair of Romeos on the same shoe shelf as several pairs of Converse. At the time I told him that of course it was not; after all, here I was with two distinctly different styles of shoes both of which I routinely wore.

If you still read my blogs friend... You were right.

"My true self remains hidden
In the depths
Where even now
I am crying
For I am lost "


~from The Masks I Wear, by girlinterrupted83
(OK so I took it out of context and from my own poem... but that bit works here *shrug*

How

How am I supposed to talk about different feelings when for the most part I only experience them as Good or Bad? How am I supposed to tell you about intensity when it rarely ever varies. They treat me with the Roosevelt attitude of 'Walk softly and carry a big stick'. They feel quiet, almost, but boy do they pack a wallop.

And how do I convey to you how hard all of this is for me? How I honestly want to tell you important things but so often find them stuck at my throat (anyone know the ASL sign for 'stuck'? It's very appropriate here, I suggest you click on the link)). How utterly humiliated all this makes me feel? How the ambivalence drives be absolutely crazy sometimes?

And how the hell do I live another 50-60 years with all this crap?

Once Again into the Pit

Was it this gradual last time? I think it might have been. If I recall correctly I actually felt as if I had both plunged to the depths of the Pit and yet at the same time found myself there almost without even realizing what was happening to me along the way.

That's a little how it feels right now. I'm not entirely there yet but I know that is the direction I am heading. Not to somewhere on a cliff just below the edge, more at the top than anywhere else; this time I am starting down and the only place to end up is rock bottom.

I've only done this once before. Oh I flirt with the edge of the Pit. Most of the time it is where I reside. But only once have I reached the depths to which I know I am headed now. And though I prayed to God it would not happen again it seems those prayers, for one reason or another, have fallen on deaf ears.

So once again into the Pit I go. I've told more than one person that I am certain, should I ever find myself in the place I was my last year of school, that I will not make it out a second time... after all, I barely made it the first time. I really had hoped to never find myself here again, to learn whether or not my dark premonition would come true.

I guess we shall see.