Welcome to my side of the fence. . .

Welcome to my side of the fence. . . Here you will
enjoy some good laughs, maybe some frustrations,
and hopefully (if I'm a good enough writer), a few tears.

Tuesday, December 30, 2014

Thursday, December 4, 2014

Puppy Party!

 
 I thought I posted this, but apparently I only made a draft. So the puppies turned one at the end of November and the weekend before, I threw a puppy party and an unbirthday party for Angel. I baked peanut butter and carrot cakes for them and yellow cake with chocolate frosting for the human consumption. We had balloons for the dogs to play with. . . I'm attempting to add the video. It's funny. And we learned that silly string freaks the dogs out. But punching balloons are a go. We had fun celebrating the girls.





 
 
 

Friday, November 21, 2014

Getting a grip and goats.

Okay, my last post was super crazy. But it was true. Although it may seem I've lost my marbles, I am starting to connect some dots. Even if it doesn't make the screaming headaches disappear, it does help to know. For instance, the "blackouts"; they are a part of my diagnosis for DID. Dissociative Identity Disorder. A.k.a. Multiple personalities. One of the symptoms for DID is also eating disorders. Hmm. Seems fitting. The anxiety is part DID, but mostly my stay at Reasons. I'll explain:
I have an internal, used-to-be subconscious thing, that when there's been a change in my normal routine, it takes me an "x" amount of time to regroup. Like, let's say, when Scott does a tdy. After he
comes home I allow myself time to fall apart to recuperate. Everything I held together to stay strong during his absence, I then release and feel the anxiety, fears, and stresses that I held back. We call it my down time. Scott pointed out last night that for six weeks, in a place I didn't feel safe, I held it together. I'm still processing those anxieties, fears, and stresses. Hence the anxiety that has me shaking all day. And it's six weeks worth. It's gonna take some time and I have to be kind to myself on this one. Allow myself that time.
As for the "blackouts". I'm taking that ball of wax to battle. I'm gonna get a grip on that. I can control it to a certain degree and I have more "degree" than I admit. So I am challenging myself that through my anxieties, I will be mindful of where I am, being present in every second of my day, so that I don't fall into a "blackout". It's when I let my mind wander that I let myself go. It's actually physically exhausting to be on myself, so I fall back on the being kind to myself. It's just going to take time.
And I'm just gonna stop the merry-go-round of getting wrapped up in allowing all this mental crap define me. I'm always reminding myself that. Friends are reminding me. I'll admit, I use it as a crutch, I use it to say this is me and I let it take me over. I'm going to work on undoing that; in a way, I'm embracing it, but putting boundaries on it's power. I'm so much more than labels. And this is something that I know is going to be an on/off switch thing. I'll believe it and live it for some days, and other days I'll backslide. But, like Scott told me last night, it's about getting back up again instead of crutching. And like all the above, it's going to take time. For the sake of myself and my family, I've got nothing but time.
And all of this needs not to be on just my shoulders. I've got Someone walking me through; I just got to remember to hold His hand.

All that aside, I'm still living daily life. Slowly. The kids are actually my biggest challenge. They stress me out with their bickering, obnoxiousness, and needs. I really want to be with them and enjoy them because I love them, but I have to set boundaries with them. They can be an overkill sometimes. I'm stressing patience, but it's wearing thin because I'm stressing patience on all aspects of life. I only have so much.

Scott's been my knight in shining armor as usual. But it's different this time and he had me balling like a baby last night with the reality check: he can't always physically be there. He can't always save me. To me that translates as he's abandoning me. Or that it changes our love. Or limits it. I don't know. It just makes me feel absolutely scared. It's more change to adapt to and it's always been a part of us that he's there when I crumble. Now I crumble by myself. Or so it seems.

Then there's my girls. My sweet, moody, pregnant goatie girls. At first when they came home, I couldn't deal with them. I avoided them for three days. Then I missed them. Then I was questioning my ability to take care of them, what's best for them, what's best for me (should I be doing goats when I'm such a mess?). I was almost ready to give them up. Then I went out to the barn. And I sat in the middle of the barn, in poopy straw and everything. And they loved on me and I loved on them. I think I was out there for almost two hours. I couldn't get enough of them. And I knew, come hell or high water, I'm in it all with my girls right beside with me.

Come hell or high water, I'm going through with it with a lot more besides me than goats. There's so much to remember.

Wednesday, November 19, 2014

Tired of this.


“Let the rain wash away the all the pain of yesterday, I know my kingdom awaits and they've forgiven my mistakes. . . “ {Skylar Grey, Coming Home}

“Nothing to hold but the memories and frames, oh they remind me of the battle I face. . . “ {Jasmine Thompson, This Is The Way It Feels}

The 3:30 wake-ups are growing old. The bundle of tantrums in my mind are exhausting. Seems like my head is like a hurricane, I can hear the thunder and feel the lightning. My head seriously hurts from anxiety. I’m hyper vigilant, every noise and sudden movement makes me jump out of my skin. I can’t concentrate, hours go by that I can’t recall. Yesterday, I went grocery shopping and I don’t remember. I found myself almost waking up at D’s school, picking him up, and coming home to find two frozen turkeys on the counter and a pot of chicken and dumplings on the stove (thank God it wasn’t on). So I guess I did eat somewhere in all that nonsense. What’s wrong with me? It’s kind of freaking me out.

Sunday, November 16, 2014

P.S.

I do get your comments, but I don't make them public, I keep them private.

Brick walls suck.

It's crazy, my life. I've been home 12 days. I've had diarrhea of the mouth, stuffed my emotions deep down to my toes, carried burdens, fucked off people who don't care to understand, eaten food even when it tastes like cardboard, and as always, been looking for my smile and laughter. . .
Reasons Eating Disorder Center had it's ups and downs. An up was my comrades. We had all different, unique stories that individualized us, but the emotions were almost copacetic--am I enough just as I am, broken, wounded, and seemingly unworthy? Through our traumas and marred pasts, we took care of the world but never ourselves. Our recoveries literally had our lives on the line and I often observed my new little family, wondering were we gonna make it? We all had brick walls, trying our damndest to take one down at a time, finding the reason why we battled with eating disorders. It was no easy task, spending hours a day processing our lives. The witty, steadfast(and often leader) of our group had jokingly announced the numbers in which we grappled our inner most secrets: 31 hours a week of group time, three hours of individual time, and two hours with our dietician. A full time job. I took it a step further and one week I counted how many boxes of tissues we went through in just group--five. There was never a question that we weren't trying, or took the recovery as a nonchalant, if-I-get-around-to-it kind of thing. We got nitty-gritty.
They also taught me how to socialize again, what nonjudgmental looks like in action, and how perseverance trumps bravery and courage. They accepted me--the good, the bad, and the ugly. They endured my idiosyncrasies with humor and I think, even love. I will never forget them and will always say a little prayer for their journeys.
An obvious plus to Reasons, is they make you eat. Mostly junk food. But it helped me gain some weight. And that's the point, right?
Last, but not least, was certain staff. Elizabeth, my straight shooter, and Sue, my English "mom" who doesn't like sweaty shorts in her dryer. I always felt heard and helped when they were around. They treated me like a person, not a prisoner.
What I didn't like about Reasons is almost a loss of words, but you know me, I'll find the words. Inconsistencies and safety were the themes that had me guarded and in constant survival mode. The hospital, fit tightly on two city lots in the ghetto, didn't just consist of an eating disorder center, but a full fledged mental health hospital. There were the crazies, the insane, and the adolescents. Oh, and a cafeteria--famous for there scrambled eggs in water. I felt like I was always looking out for my companions so that the cat callers left them alone and even looking over my own shoulder, fearful of being snuck up on by an unmedicated schizophrenic. I was generally the oldest patient and I felt compelled to stand between the insane perverts and my young "campers" (you girls know what I mean--everybody hop on the struggle bus!) I am older, these guys weren't interested in me, they wanted fresh meat and my girls are already vulnerable and raw, almost so much so that they were unable to stand up for themselves if push came to shove. Nobody was getting hurt on my watch. I didn't say or emphasize that or share how I felt because we were constantly being accused of a eating disorder behavior--care taking. We tend to take care of everyone but ourselves. I did good at keeping my care taking under the radar. They will never know what things I did and said to staff to make sure they were okay. But still, in all my attempts, I failed. And I've carried that burden everyday since.
During my stay at Hotel Alahambra, there was this guy that I instantly disliked and belonged on the other wing, what we called A2. There, he was being under observation for whatever brought him there, probably watched also for medication affects, as is common on A2. But he knew one of our patients. Two, actually. One patient he talked to frequently, coming into the hallway of our wing, where he didn't belong. I told our patient repeatedly to talk to him not on our side and regarded him as a friend and was unconcerned. I saw him as a threat and every motherly instinct in me was screaming Code 3. My fellow patient knew him from another treatment center and he talked freely of sex he had with past patients at other treatments centers and was vulgar and ugly on how he talked about women. He also shared he would be joining our group in three days. My fellow patient laughed it off; she had a lack of boundaries and I don't know why, but thought he was funny. Theoretically, I blamed it on the before-mentioned--she was raw and vulnerable and instead of asserting herself as being uncomfortable, she put on a fa├žade that she was all good with his perversion, so everything would just be okay. Even if it wasn't.
I was pissed. I went Momma Bear and straight to the director of Reasons. I told him that I had a bad feeling. I told him that he was bad news. I told him that if he passed through the Reasons doors, I was out of there. He replied with okay. That's it, just okay.
Then I heard another conversation with the same fellow patient and the same creeper. Now he was talking about what did the "goods" look like on our side, who would he be interested in. He made inappropriate gestures with his body and thought he was the funniest fucking thing on earth. I wanted to spit in his face and punch his lights out. And again, I alerted the director and again, he replied with a nonchalant, "we'll look into it". My worry was growing and I felt we were all unsafe. I had nightmares and umbrella-ed my girls like no other. They probably thought I was a creeper because I was all up in their kool-aid, quiet and ears open.
Then one day, I was with another patient getting meds, one I was particularly sensitive to and he talked to her. Apparently she knew him, too. He bragged again about his dirty deeds, and she flipped through a magazine, trying to dismiss his words. But I saw her hands shake and her body language was all wrong. I went Momma Bear and said something to make him go back on his side. And I stood between him and her. I was ready to go down swinging. I had enough.
At this point, I was complaining until I was blue in the face and getting nowhere. I felt unheard and my premonition was filling my head so that it was consuming my thoughts. Something wasn't okay. This was at the end of a week.
I was finally told on the following Thursday he would not be attending Reasons and was discharged from the hospital.
The following Saturday, my "inmate", the one who had flipped through a magazine, shared in a small, intimate, group that she had been sexually assaulted. Guess who by? I was irate. Livid. I felt responsible. Could I have done more? What? She told her story and all the dots connected of what I had observed, the staff finally, after the fact, telling me he was gone, the interest he had in her, the intensity he had in wanting to be on our wing, our assaulted patient not with the group on a certain day. I swear if he had not already been discharged, I was going to go find him an go A1 on him (crazy with violence and holding nothing back). I wanted the kill. My girl did not deserve it, already so raw and feeling like she was worth nothing. She had one more tally to hate herself. I just wanted to hold her, like my child and soothe her, but all I could do was go to my room and cry myself to sleep. Why, in a place that was promised to be a safe haven for recovery turn into a hell hole?
That had not been the only instance of inappropriateness--although, by far, the worst. In the evenings, when we would bring our dinner trays back to the cafeteria, there would be a group from A2 there. In the group were some of the creepers that cat called my girls in the morning line up. As we walked by, on of the guys was slapping us on the butt saying, "Good game." I avoided the contact, but was upset nonetheless because staff was right there doing nothing. (The same staff that would frequently yell out on other evenings, "Make room for the skinny girls!")  And the girls I was with said nothing, being so caught up in their insecurities of fight or flight. One girl even laughed and I asked her about it later. She explained that she was so accustomed to being used for her body that this was no big deal. And I, of course, went tattle-tailing to the Director. And this was way before the serious injustice.
I made headway in my recovery journey, but I didn't take advantage of the full allotted time my insurance was allowing me. I bought a ticket on Sunday, October 27th to go home Monday, November 3rd. The place was becoming toxic. I was becoming triggered in a non-eating disorder way. I had to take care of me in all aspects and my time at Reasons was done.
I left with the promise of my insurance providing follow up care of an out patient care facility near home. They pulled the plug. So we alerted our congressman and are trying to get the care I need because at this point, being thrown back into the world, I am statistically set up for failure. And I want to take it a step further. . .I want others to not go through what I have done to get care. I want to blaze a trail for the future. And I filed a complaint against Reasons for inconsistencies and not following policies and procedures in their care for patients. Hopefully, it will make a difference and protect future comrades.
Here at home, I am slowly adjusting. I got my goats back yesterday and I was beyond thrilled that they snuggled with me, remembering me. I buried my face in their winter coats and just breathed them in. I almost cried, I was so happy. How can anybody not love a goat? (Just kidding.)
I eat, but like I said, sometimes it's more like eating cardboard. I have a hard time finishing meals. I am using a scale to make sure I am at least maintaining and not losing weight. I was so proud that I had weaned myself off from sugar after my bariatric surgery and now, after Reasons, I'm back in the sugar boat. I'm giving it my all, doing what I can. My dietician at Reasons would be highly displeased that I have Starbucks TWICE a day. Ha! That's right, it's happening. Take that and Like It on Facebook! ;) Thanks you-know-who for those words!
Emotionally, I am a wreck. My moods are all over the place. I am easily irritable. I laugh one minute, cry the next. I am being reevaluated for yet another mental health diagnosis. The proverbial "they" are saying that I am Borderline Personality Disorder in conjunction with Bipolar, Anxiety Disorders, PTSD, and Disassociative Identity Disorder . Why don't they just make me wear a t-shirt that says, please walk on eggshells, major fuck up coming through? That's what it feels like. I researched all these "illnesses" and I was surprised to find a common denominator in symptoms of these diagnosis. You guessed it--eating disorder. And it comes full circle. Damn it all.
I have so much work to do on me. . . I feel like I will spend the rest of my life fixing me instead of enjoying it. It brings me down and I wonder what's the point? I want to be a productive human being and instead, I'm going to spend years just trying to survive. If it weren't for my husband, children, and yes--goats, I'd just quit.
And on that note, I leave you to your day. Relish the little things and find your peace.

Sunday, October 5, 2014

Getting to the Root.

I wonder why I am here. I'm physically getting better because I am supervised/forced to eat. But if I were released today, I know I would relapse. So that tells me I'm not getting better mentally. The point of being here is not just to fatten me up, but to find the reason, or root, of why I have an eating disorder. I feel like the surface hasn't even been scratched on that. Why do I have an eating disorder? What triggered it?
I do have possible theories. One, Scott and I have been doing A LOT of talking about what we're going to do when he retires from the military in 2 years. The what-if's and what-are-we-going-to-do's permeate my thoughts and race through my mind all the time. We have what we want to do in mind (farm) but we don't have the resources to quickly get to that goal so we can make a living off from it. We need money, land, operational equipment, barns, milking houses, it seems like an endless list. To get to our goal, Scott will have to find another job so we can apply for an operational loan. Which means we should eliminate some debt now for the loan to come. And he would have to keep working until we start pulling a profit from what we want to do. So, that leaves me to do all the work on what we are working towards. I've never been able to hold down a job due to bipolar and PTSD. Ever. So what if my passion dies and it starts feeling a job? Will I fail?
Between the needed job for Scott, the resources, the what if's of our goals, how to achieve those goals when we have so many obstacles and doubting myself has caused a great deal of stress. And anxiety. And loss of control. I'm projecting so far into the future I have no control over. My anxiety has increased to the point that I'm on meds for it. I'm worried, stressed, and unsure. The panic attacks are daily. I theorize then, that maybe my anorexia stems from the unknown and loss of control. And by controlling my own body, I have control of something.
I don't know. Because then I think about my weight and obsession with it from the bariatric side of things. I weighed 275 pounds before I had the bariatric sleeve surgery. In my mind, the further I get away from that 275, the better chance I will never be there again. When I was at what the doctor called my "ideal" weight, I was told by someone I could stand to lose a few more pounds. Then I gained a pound. And that sent me off the deep end. I started setting goals for myself: lose 5 more pounds, now another five more, another five more. . . It just kept going and then the exercise. I started to run. I ran for a half hour. Then 35 minutes. Then forty-five minutes. Then an hour. I ended up with runner's knee, so I climbed on my elliptical and before I knew it, I was exercising almost two hours at level 5. And then I would only eat 300 calories of actual food a day. Then some days I would not eat at all but still exercise. I just kept pushing the limits. How far could I stretch myself? At what point would enough be enough? I was almost willing to die to find out. I was self-harming, I guess. But why???

I processed in group this morning some of the before-mentioned thoughts and it ended up that the whole group felt the same way: WHY DO WE HAVE EATING DISORDERS???

I asked my parents, sister, and brother-in-law to come visit me next Saturday to a family process group (they kinda get educated and are able to ask questions) and then I could visit them with me getting a pass to leave the hospital. But they can't. It's my niece's birthday. My mom says maybe next week, but not to get my hopes up. That felt like a serious rejection-slap-in-the-face. One it irritated me that I was told not to get my hopes up. I am here, confined with an eating disorder for who knows how long and I have nothing to hope for, so when I asked, OF COURSE I got my hopes up. And then I got a no and a "don't get your hopes up". It was like saying, "we'll fit you in when we can". I felt like a squashed bug. Then immediately after that thought process I felt an enormous amount of guilt. Was my thought process selfish? I don't know. Was it fair to them to perceive it that way? I don't know. But I also felt so guilty because I was asking them to take up an entire day of their travel and time to come see me. And I was also anxious because if they couldn't come this next weekend then Ayla, my pregnant sister, probably won't be able to come at all because she will over 32 weeks pregnant and long distance traveling isn't encouraged this far along. So it makes me very, very sad.
I feel like I shouldn't have asked in the first place because it's just made a mess of things in my head and in family politics. I feel like I screw everything up. Damn it.

Saturday, October 4, 2014

Part 2.

Well, as of two days ago, I am no longer the oldest! There's another mom here and her kids are the exact same ages as Dominic and Nina. In fact her daughter is three weeks older than Nina and her son is five days younger than Dominic. Crazy. She loves to talk to me about my goats and gmo's and bio-engineered foods, and homesteading things. She is a nice addition to the group and although it's unfortunate she has to have to be here, too, I am glad in her company.

Today's Saturday, October 4th and I have been crying 90% of the day for two reasons. One is, we have a therapist that leads groups and scares the beejeebee's outta me. She's so by the book and intimidating, I don't understand how anyone could open up to her and be comfortable. She's always correcting me if she's at our meals. We have to keep our hands above the table but the gym is so cold, I naturally put my left hand in between my thighs to keep it warm, while I eat with my right hand. She harps on me sharply. There is no gentle reprimand. I feel like she would make a great drill instructor. Well, this morning we had our first processing group with her and I was afraid to speak and thankfully somebody else did. But then another girl began to speak about a negative reaction she was told about our program, but because it was said by another patient and that patient wasn't in the room, the therapist just spoke sharply and said you can't talk about this. You are not allowed to process this unless the other patient is here. I knew the behind the scene story because the girl speaking up is my roomie and I know what she was trying to process had nothing to do with the other patient, just the meaning of what was said and how she internalized it. It was not an attack on the patient. But the therapist wouldn't take the time to here that. I said nothing in that session for fear of her reprimands. During the same morning session, WHILE a patient was in mid sentence of expressing herself, the therapist said, time's up, session is over and got up to lead us out of the room. No closure, no I'm sorry, no let's continue this on next session. Just bam! It's over. This is also the same therapist that has, when time was up, stood up from chair and just left the room and called over her shoulder time's up. The entire room just sat there for a minute, dazed and perplexed, like what the hell just happened? WE are the ones usually racing to the door! Well, at 11:30 everyday I get to reheat a morning's cup of coffee because it's the only time of the day that meets the criteria of I can't drink a half hour before or after a meal. So they save my styrofoam cup in the office and they give it to me and I go walk it to the gym where we have our little kitchenette set up. I heat my coffee and I get to drink it. It's like the highlight of my day. Well today, Miss Meanie Therapist followed in after me a few seconds while I was at the microwave. She saw me and said, "You are required to be escorted by staff to heat up your coffee." I told her, but I have been doing it this way for four or five days now. She says "Yeah, yeah, I know, but you have to be escorted." I said fine and started crying and got the hell outta her sight. I feel so beat down by her. I felt so squashed.

So that's been 30% of today's crying.

The rest of today's crying has everything to do with my little sister. I was planning a baby shower for her today and I ended up coming here, so I handed the reins over to her best friend and my mom. I feel so shameful and guilty that I am here and not there. I want so much to have been there, providing her with an amazing memory. It's always been on my to-do list's in life: throw my sister her first baby shower. That's what big sister's are for. And I failed to accomplish that. And it's my fault. I talked to the doctor today and he suggested I call her before the shower and after the shower to still kinda include myself. Well, I called her before the shower and got her voice mail. I should have just hung up, but instead I opened my mouth and I blubbered that I love her and hope today is fun for her and that I was so sorry I couldn't be there. I don't quite know how she deciphered it between my sobs, but I got a voice mail back that was comforting and made me cry more.

Being here is exhausting and with everyday that passes, I feel more raw and less formidable. I want to lash out sometimes. But I don't. I just simmer.

Friday, October 3, 2014

Rosemead, CA.

I arrived at Reasons, an eating disorder center Friday, Sept. 25th. I'm in Rosemead, CA.

As we got closer to this destination, I had just wanted to jump ship, wake up from the bad dream, or disappear altogether. I was so scared. Scott held my hand as we were orientated by George who told us which was what and who was which. It was all so sudden and overwhelming. And I remember saying good bye to Scott. One last hug, one last kiss. . . then it was just me. Alone. And then I was scooped up in this unfamiliar whirlwind of activity and faces. I was so scared shitless that I just smiled through it like I was okay and I do this kinda thing all the time.

September 27th:
I woke up the next morning, learning the new routines, like vital checks, blood draws, weight (we're not allowed to see), shower time, line-up time, breakfast time, group time. . . .my first process group time. It started out with deep breathing and the person leading it said take your mind to a place that makes you feel happy. I automatically thought of home. I flash backed to sun spilling through the windows in the morning, a hot cup of coffee in Scott's recliner, playing aggravation my children, cuddling with Scott before bed, and the smell of my goats. On the next deep breath in, I was sobbing. Just crying in grief. I felt so ripped apart. The deep breathing session ended and I was still crying. The counselor of the group asked the typical, "What's going through your mind?" And God be blessed, the door opened and someone called my name to come out. I ran out with relief. And still crying. A woman said she was my therapist and I know she said her name, but I just wanted to be somewhere else. I think she suspected so, because we went to a private office and so started my first therapy session. The Reality Check.

September 28th:
The schedule here is so to the minute that it makes the days go by very fast. We get ten minute breaks a couple times a day and I just go sit out in the sun and think. I get personal time from 7-9 every night cause that's visiting hours and I have no visitor's. Here, I'm the oldest by many years and it's difficult fitting in. There's a set clique and a mom of teens isn't a good fit.There are other moms but there kids aren't older than 5 and we are just not in the same stages of parenting. And everybody's a city slicker. I just don't think like they do. I feel uncomfortable. I feel isolated. The others avoid me, or so it seems to me, they don't sit by me at the meal table, they don't ask questions. We have a lot of group sessions that we are supposed to speak up in, but I never get to speak, not that I would. I don't feel welcomed, so why would anybody care?

September 29th: I've woken up in a foul mood. I had a nightmare last night. Tryin' to shake it off and not let it determine my day.

September 30th:
So yesterday was a hard day. I felt tears threatening  to spill out at every word or action I made. I felt so invisible that I isolated myself and hardly spoke. At the last process group of the day, I finally talked. And cried. (I can't emphasize enough--there's been a lot of crying.) I hate crying. I never like giving people the satisfaction of seeing me hurt. It makes me feel vulnerable and raw. And to top it off, I started the day again from another nightmare. The last few days have been nothing but panic attacks and crying.

October 1st:
Another nightmare. I can't stand it. They absorb so much energy from me.
In a month it will be my birthday and it'll be the second time I have spent my birthday on a psych ward. I feel ashamed. I feel like my life revolves around me always getting better. It's all about me and I feel shame and guilt for that. There's so much more to live than this. I feel useless and unproductive to God and my family.
I did have a break through in speaking in group; the counselor opened up with, "Does anyone have anything they want to speak about?" And the room stayed silent. So one of the "veteran" patients said, "If no one is gonna talk, then I will." And the counselor replied with, "If other people aren't going to talk then that's their problem." I felt like somebody slapped me in the face. I vehemently exclaimed that I totally disagreed with that statement and maybe some people don't talk in group because they don't feel comfortable and they feel pushed out of the group and that if they said anything no one would care. And. . . you guessed it, I started crying.

I'll stop here for now and type more tomorrow if I can get access to the one computer with internet. I, of course, have still much more to say.

P.S. They are stuffing my face. We literally eat six times a freakin' day!

Wednesday, September 24, 2014

On my way.

So, Tricare told us at one o'clock yesterday that they will not pay up front for travel; we have to pay first and then they reimburse us. So we packed our bags and are currently stuck in traffic at exit 3, heading into Oregon. When I say we, I mean the whole family. We're dropping the kids off at Great G'ma's in Armona. Then Scott will escort me to death row. Just kidding, I guess.

Monday, September 22, 2014

Still waiting.

Tricare has me by the throat. And all I can do is let them and pray they let go.
Now the earliest I'm leaving is Wednesday. But I'm sure they'll find another loophole to stop me from going. I feel like giving up.

Sunday, September 21, 2014

Moving forward.

First, (again) I want to update you on Scott's health. They've doubled his med dose and that seems to be working. He got a second opinion from his squadron doc and he said to be weary of a surgical fix because it could cause more problems down the road. Scott knows his squadron doc well and trusts him, so he's heeding his advice.

For me, I will be leaving sometime this next week for Rosemead, CA. It was supposed to be Monday, but once again, insurance is well. . .I'll keep it PG on this one. They are an unattached, non-caring system. We've been told Tuesday, but we'll believe it when we see it. We're pushing for Scott to go with as a medical aid because I might get cold feet and jump out of the airplane. Ha ha. I am so scared to walk through their doors alone. I have no idea what's on the other side. I need a hand to hold. I hope Tricare approves it.

So I'll be gone 45-60 days-ish. Depends on how fast I get fat. They have yoga classes. Kinda curious about that.
I'm totally feeling sorry for myself because I'm missing my favorite time of year in this beautiful state. I'll miss Nina's first play at Black Hills. I'll be alone on one of my favorite "holidays"--Halloween. And I'll be alone on my birthday. I will barely make it home in time for Thanksgiving. Whoa as me.
I still fret about Scott and being a single parent. His work will be sympathetic for maybe two weeks and then who knows.
I do think that my absence from the house will be a bit of relief for Scott and the kids. I don't say that to feel sorry for myself, but out of sincerity that they need to recuperate and rest from what I've put them through. On their side of the fence they can know that mom's gone to get help and that I'm in the hands of people who know what they're doing, whereas, the kids and Scott don't know what to do with me and have been at a loss. Now they can release that tension and heal.
I think Nina is gonna eat this up and play the role of Heinrich Queen Bee. Dominic will take it the hardest. He's my boy and can't go a day without hugs from his momma. I'm going to miss both my kids. When your with your kids 24-7 you tend to focus on the parts of them that need to be refined. But when ur seperated, you think about all what's good in your children. And how much you love them.
Being seperated from Scott is a no-brainer. I'll cry for my children, but sob for my husband. He completes me and not being near him is like living without my right arm. I cant talk about it anymore. It makes me cry now.
So, we'll see what this week has in store for the Heinrich's. It's a time of change. Intervention. Healing. And setting things right.

God's will be done.

Thursday, September 18, 2014

Hope? Is it You?

Well, it been several emotional days.

September 13th:
I'd like to start off with Scott and his health. The 12th, he had a scope put down his throat and into his tummy. For several months, he's had bad acid reflux that causes him to not eat or throw up. It's become a daily problem and the medications he's taking for it are not helping. They did biopsies to make sure nothing's cancerous, but that seemed of no concern to the doc. He's confident that is not the issue. What is, he saw. So the findings were that Scott has problems in his esophagus and stomach valves that cause bile to come up all the way to his throat, inflaming the lining of stomach, esophagus, and throat. He also has a hiatus hernia and a single gastric polyp was removed (a small bump, I think). A hiatus hernia is when a little bit of your stomach is poking up into your esophagus. I called it an esophagus hemorrhoid, lol. Next week we find out what the next step will be. Obviously, meds aren't helping and the doc suggested a surgical alternative to tighten up the valves so they close and open as they should.
Now let me tell you about Scott coming out of anesthesia. LOL, oh my gosh. As soon as I figure out how to download the video off my phone and onto my computer you will see it. I also had the pleasure of calling one of his troops so he could hear Scott's babblings. Scotty was very adamant about ice cream sandwiches and was a bit emotional about getting his hands on one. It was hilarious. Oh, and he wanted to invent something along the lines of a "rubble bubble bunny head" of which he did not know what you do with it, but it had lucky feet. LOL I got video of that, too.

September 15th:
Insurance has us on a rollercoaster. One day, I'm approved for partial inpatient care, then I'm not. Then they want a physical. Then they want this or that. I was supposed to start the partial inpatient tomorrow. It's a no go. I can't even get to my doc appt until Wednesday, the 17th. Our ultimate goal is to get me into a full time inpatient facility. If Tricare is giving us crap for partial inpatient, I'm not optimistic about being in a facility. What it comes down to is Tricare does not want to pay money for long term care. It's all about the almighty dollar. Good things have come out of us pushing and fighting back. We have found an advocate in Scott's squadron, a caseworker and she has performed miracles in the system. She did get me approved today for partial in patient, pending my physical. She knows the back doors of the system and has connections with others who have connections. They know how to finagle their way through the sea of paperwork and have been nonstop at helping me. I am so thankful.

September 17th:
Holy cow. We finally found a facility that accepts Tricare! It's not through the Emily Program, although I will come back to them for preventive relapse care. According to Tricare, the Emily Program is too new and not accredited so therefore unsuitable. But they approved the partial inpatient care? I did a phone consultation with a facility called Reasons. It's in Rosemead, California, just barely outside of L.A. I think you start with inpatient on a residential-like hospital wing to stabilize me physically and start stuffing my face (not really). I think that after a couple weeks, they move you to a residential house in Pasadena. At least that's the impression I got. We get a call tomorrow to find out what they suggest for plan of attack and when.
I went to my physical today and he cleared me. I weigh 115 fully clothed. It was the first time I saw my weight in over two weeks. The doc was quick to inform me that this is the first time he's ever heard or seen a bariatric patient turn anorexic (made me feel good--not). He also said I'll never be cured, I'll fight this the rest of my life (double yay). He said he's really curious to the outcome of my situation and to come back and fill him in. He said it like I was a lab rat experiment. I wanted to punch the living shit outta his face. I will not be back. I am finding another doctor. I will not stand to be called a failure before I even had a shot at trying. Asshole. He is also the same doc that told me the first time I ever saw him that I will more than likely die due to being bipolar and will probably commit suicide. Because he's worked in ER's for years and year's, he saw it all the time, therefore he judged me as such. I should've dropped him then. Now I'm the dumbass.

In general, over the last several days:
I've cried, I've hoped, I've felt stripped of hope, I'm scared, frustrated, angry. I'm thankful though for the strangers who have been fighting for me. Through them, Scott, and the Emily Program, we have found a way so that other military dependents can now have a better shot at getting approved. Networking has been established mostly because of Scott. He directly hooked up all these strangers fighting for the cause and now they know each other and what each can do to help the next person. Scott single-handedly opened the floodgates. Praise God, there's gonna be other women who won't be tortured by Tricare. We're onto them! This is EXACTLY what I want my experience to do: to change other's lives. And in a small instance, it has. So, that gives me hope.
My Emily Program therapist has strongly pushed Scott to remove the elliptical out of the house. I threw a fit. The fact that I ride it for 100 minutes every day and don't consume more than 700 calories a day is apparently a bad thing. She told me that my body is getting it's energy now from my muscles and at this point I've lost 20% of my muscle mass, to include my heart, being that it's a muscle. She said this is why anorexics die of heart attacks. This has been my first eye-opener. I don't want to have a heart attack in front of my kids. She said she understands my need to exercise, but not to do it more than an hour and at a walking pace. My heart rate can't go above 130. B-O-R-I-N-G. But I've complied. Unfortunately, I've "compensated" by eating even less.

September 18th, 4:30a.m.:
I can't sleep. I've been up since 3. I'm anxious to what/where the next week will hold. Will I be in CA? I am going to miss my family, my goats, my home comforts. My lifestyle (besides the anorexia, of course). How will Scott manage? It's always been me playing the single parent and it's hard. It's juggling schedules, prioritizing, asking for help when pride doesn't get in the way. I have so much I want to do to help prepare, but I may not have enough time to line it all up. We do have a plan for Nina. She's in an out of district school, but they are willing to work with us; Scott has arranged a bus stop in the morning, so on his way to work he can drop her off and jump back on the freeway and not be too late for work. Afterschool, she will take another bus and she'll be dropped off a short walk to the city library and she'll do homework until Scott picks her up. The library is like her second home, so it's right up her alley (my kid loves books so much that she's reading a biography on Abraham Lincoln for fun). Scott will still have to juggle D's soccer practice and Saturday games. And laundry. And meals. And keeping D on track with homework. And grocery shopping. And. . . there's just so much. I have it lined up that a friend of mine is gonna help out with housework once a week or so. And my goats are being boarded with another friend. They were headed that way anyways to be bred and she said they can stay as long as I need them to. I think that will help Scott and I know that my babies will get lovin's and attention. The only thing I haven't done yet is arrange a meal train of some sort. I have a few people in mind that I am gonna swallow my pride and ask them to provide a meal so Scott doesn't have to worry about it all the time.
I don't know. I feel so guilty. It should never gotten this bad. I don't know how it got to this point. It just happened. I am so afraid to be 275 pounds again. I have it set in my mind that the farther my weight numbers get away from the number 275, the better chance I'll have at never being there again.

Please, the few of you that read this. . . be there for Scott. Call him, text him. Invite him over. If my kids are friends with your kids, we can do sleepovers. "Play dates". Going to the movies. Any social time. Scott's cell number is (360) 972-9323. Be there for him. No one has had his back this entire time. All the focus has been on me. Pray for him for strength (emotional fifteen year olds and fighting children is hard when you're dealing with EVERYTHING) and his health. Please be his friend.

Thanks, guys.

"Be bold and diligent. And God be with you as you do your best." ~ 2 Chronicles 19:11

Tuesday, September 9, 2014

Moving forward.

Today was a productive day; I finished Ayla's baby shower invites (a second time since I changed the date) and tackled a mountain of laundry. I also rode my elliptical for 100 minutes. I ate so-so. I ate less calories than I burned. Probably not mybest move.
My mental state is eh. I'm feeling down. I think about food all day but don't eat it. Scott took my scale away and it's left me vulnerable. I'm focusing on Ayla's baby shower cause it keeps me thinking and creative.
My first appointment with the Emily Program is this Thursday. It is for three and a half hours. There's psych tests, therapist talk, initial planning. I am scared to death to walk through their doors. It will help that Scott's going with me.

Monday, September 8, 2014

Defeated.

I was so excited about my triumph yesterday that I thought I would do something big and be okay with it. I had this frame of mind that I'm cured.
And I ate a chocolate covered donut. I enjoyed about half, felt guilty the other half, just like my pumpkin spice latte, but I powered through, thinking that this was part of the mind game. I finished and two minutes later felt sick to my stomach. What did I just do? What was I thinking??? Did I not take into account how many calories that was??????? I wanted to undo the whole thing and I was really upset. I knew what I was going to do, but I had to take Nina to school first.
I took Nina to school got home and well, I threw up the donut. I'm not gonna say how because I don't want to teach anyone how to throw up. But it was effective. I don't think I'm ever gonna want to have a donut again. Not just from the pukage package, but from the mental experience. I was horrified at what I did. And scared that all the calories didn't get out of me when I threw it up, so I let my tummy settle down and then got on my elliptical and rode it for 100 minutes. Yes, an hour and forty minutes. I think I had some sort of internal meltdown today. And I've eaten the bare minimum today, still counting the calories of the donut in my overall day, just in case my body absorbed them. I know. I've gone insane.
So today wasn't the best day. Maybe tomorrow will be better. I'm feeling a bit defeated. Like the extreme opposite of yesterday. I'm really depressed about it, actually.

There is a positive happening today, tho. After some serious arm twisting through various channels of "the system", Tricare approved me for the Emily Program. Now we are waiting on a call from them.

Sunday, September 7, 2014

A small milestone.

I want to kudos me today. I usually eat less than 500 calories a day and run or ride my elliptical for over an hour. Today, I ate 1025 calories and rode my elliptical for only forty minutes. I actually had a latte. It was hard drinking the entire thing because of guilt but I felt like I needed to finish it to make a point to myself. I needed to try and teach myself that it's okay to enjoy in moderation and like it. Without the guilt. Without feeling like I'm gonna throw up or wish I could make myself throw up.
I spent the day out of my comfort zone. It was a mind game all day. I was emotional with anger and guilt. I felt like I should be punished for the calories I was consumimg. I felt fat and like I could feel fat growing on my body. And I was angry for allowing myself to enjoy the first half of that pumpkin spice latte.
I just don't want to be 275 pounds again. I don't want to enjoy the things that got me there--bad meds and food. I'm exhausted from the mental game I played today.
I want to thank Scotty for coaching me through each meal. For reminding me to use my DBT skills (skills u learn to cope with life as a bipolar. . . It can be applied to any person, mental health issue or not) and just encouraging me.
And the Feed Rachael fb page helped because I showed what I ate and received encouraging words.
I don't know what tomorrow holds. But today was a victory.

Saturday, September 6, 2014

In the Hospital.

Yesterday, I was getting ready to climb on the elliptical to do my 70 minutes of riding, but I had been feeling pain under my rib since the day before and it felt like it was getting worse. It was a painful throb and sometimes stabbing. And it hurt to touch. Plus, I felt so tired and weak, but then again, I do get up at 5:30.
So I called Scott and he made me call an ambulance because I don't know why. They brought me to Centralia Providence and they ran some tests. Results were very interesting. One, I have a small case of pancreatitis. Two, for as little as I eat (and sometimes not at all) and as much as I exercise, my labs were fine. For anorexics, you're typically low on potassium and I think magnesium. I was one point low on potassium and sodium. I asked the doctor if the pancreatitis was related to anorexia and he said no. After some googling and book research from my therapist, she says yes. They also brought in a dietician for me to see this morning and she said yes. I googled it too and many sources say yes. I don't know what to think, but when we were trying to get the doctor to help us with a referral to go the Emily Program, he asked if we wanted to diagnose the anorexia with a stomach scope. I thought he was joking. I told him, anorexia doesn't give results in physical tests, but the diagnosis is through mental health. He replies with, "Yeah, yeah, I knew that." Dumbass. It took calling my therapist and  having her slowly explain things to him to get the picture. Doctors are fixers of broken bodies. They know shit when it comes to mental health and the way the mind thinks. They aren't trained to fix that. So I guess I can't blame the poor guy; he was just trying to help.
I wasn't looking forward to the dietician and told the doctor I didn't need to see one. I didn't want someone coming in, explaining the food pyramid to me and lecturing me that I need to eat more. Well, he sent her anyways. Her name is Missy and she did everything but lecture me and break out the food groups. She just talked to me that were I'm at in this stage of anorexia is normal, but to continue will have it's consequences.
**Side note** The doc just came in and told me that in this hospital there have been 14 cases of pancreatitis that were a result of anorexia. So that answers that. He said that at this point I am not severe enough to be considered as a candidate for in patient care. He said I would not be accepted, so the only option I have is the Emily Program. And so far, our insurance is denying it, so we are getting our Congressman involved (they have a special person that deals with healthcare provider's who aren't providing the healthcare) AND we talked to the Emily Program again and found out that there are other Tricare beneficiaries having the same issues so a lawsuit has been opened and we are now on that list of suing Tricare. We'll see what happens. Scott is on some sort of war path. I think he loves me.
Back on Missy. She was very passionate about encouraging me to do the program. I told her I was willing to do it for my family because they are concerned. She said until I want to do it for me, it's gonna be a struggle. I am hoping that by going to the program and seeing and hearing other cases, it will click in my mind that it's for me to change me and I have to do it because I want to help not just those I love, but I want to help me. I really liked Missy. She was encouraging and not judging.
Overall, my perception is that my anorexia is not that bad and at this point there are no real concerns. My bmi is in normal range, my labs are good, and I'm not in a worst case scenario. I am capable of getting up in the morning, taking care of daily life, and living on 500 calories a day and exercising for 70 minutes a day isn't gonna kill me. So what's the big problem?

Thursday, September 4, 2014

Do u wanna?

Okay, so my sister started an invite only page on fb called Feed Rachael. She invites certain people to show a pic or describe what they eat at each meal, or even post a recipe. I love the idea because it just might make me hungry, which is the challenge for me; I'm not even hungry anymore. So, if ur interested, u can friend her and she will invite you. Her regular fb posts that you'll get aren't an overkill of mindless junk. She is a business owner for a massage company, so she posts specials, and she has a horse, and she's pregnant. That's pretty much her fb content. Just so you know you won't be overloaded with crap posts. She's a great person. Anyhow, her name is Ayla Tidwell. I'll give her a heads up that she might receive friend requests. It's up to you if you want to participate. I won't judge ya if you pass on this.

Wednesday, September 3, 2014

Life's cocktails.

"Life is unpredictable, often challenging us with new possibilities and change."
I found an envelope that had been slipped into my tablet and that's what it says on the front of the card. Scott always knows when I need words of encouragement. He says them all the time. But I'm not always hearing them. It's hard to listen or absorb optimism or hope. It's not because I'm being stubborn or selfish. I WANT to believe what he says. I want to feel that the words are truths. I want to be permeated with it. But it doesn't stick to me. I have glimpses and fractions of a moment where I think I might get what he's saying, but soon as I reach out to grasp it, it's like touching a little cloud in front of me and my fingers go right through it. And that's discouraging. But ironically enough, there must be hope in me somewhere because the next time I have that opportunity to grasp it again, I try again.
The last few days have been almost emotionally strong days. Towards bedtime, I get a little anxious and down. So I pop an ambien and the rest of my med cocktail in my mouth and go to bed.
For the bipolar and anxiety, I take effexor, clonazepam, lamotrigine, and geodone. The most important pills are the lamotrigine. It's a mood stabilizer. So is geodone. It plays second fiddle to the first. Effexor is anti-depressant and anxiety. And clonazepam is purely anxiety. Ambien is a sleep aid.
If I didn't have a family, I wouldn't take pills. But because I love my family and am trying to the best of my ability to take care of myself because they love me, I take meds. When ur off the meds, the manic is such a high. I feel like I can do anything. Except fly. Pretty sure I can't fly. I have such great ideas and I create awesome projects and art. I don't sleep because I'm so into whatever I'm doing. I can write anything (I've been published during times like this). I want to be out in the world and be with friends and laugh. I throw parties at home. I'm like a whirlwind of happiness. I thank God for my wonderful life and go to bible studies (and even lead them). But then the crash comes. And I start wondering if I should test that theory on flying. I can't get out of bed. I don't answer the phone. I don't eat, shower, or change my clothes. I write, but it's dark and dangerous. I create art, but it reflects my misery and desperation. I sit for hours, lost in another world and I don't even remember what I was thinking about. I want it all to go away. I hate feeling that way. I ask God to kill me. I want to kill myself. So then battle begins: death or survival.

But that's not today. With meds I'm a little bit more stable. Still have some off days. I'd say I'm boring now. I don't really socialize too much cause I have routines now that I've etched into my mundane brain. Because it's safe. I have to plan everything. I'm NOT a spur of the moment kinda girl, unless I'm having an off day. My craftiness is normal level. The passion isn't as pronounced as it is when I'm unmedicated. My writing. . . It's just writing. I would say it's normal, too.
I miss the intensity of not being medicated on my manic days. Scott says I was the life of a party back in those days. Now I'm just a body at the party. I don't like normal. It's not how God created me.
But on the flipside, I have responsibilities. I got married and had kids. And they love me. It would be selfish of me to not medicate myself. I owe it to them. It's doing the right thing.

Today is a day of trying to get myself to eat. I ate breakfast--an actual bowl of cereal. That's a big deal, but now I feel that I have to burn those calories and ride my elliptical for more than an hour. So the struggle today will be the elliptical time. If I can stop myself from riding it too long, then my next struggle will be to still eat. I'll want to eat less to compensate for eating breakfast. And so the rollercoaster begins. . .

Tuesday, September 2, 2014

Clarification.

I want to clarify why I'm writing the good, the bad, and the ugly. Because it's real. It's not just about me. It's about the twenty plus million of people who suffer the same thing. And I want to be a voice that gets heard. I want to fellowship with others who suffer. I don't know where my fate ends (do I die at age 99 in my sleep, or do I swallow two bottles of tylenol when I'm forty-five) but it is my goal to enlighten and educate the ignorant along my journey. I have been really hard on those who have looked the other way. Well, frankly, it hurts to be ignored. And I know you're not really ignoring me, you just don't know what to say. I get it. But it's been laid on my heart to speak up. And at this point, I know who gets me, who's trying to understand, and who are going to continue to pretend life is happy, happy, happy and pretend people like me don't exist. Okay then, you do that. I guess what I'm saying is I am not seeking support, I got my tiny group. And I am secure in my faith of where I stand in my Father's eyes. He knows my heart and He gets the whole picture. But if you want to crawl inside the head of a person who deals with mental health issues, for whatever reason you chose, then read on.

Keeping it real.

Well, Scotty found out a few days ago that I have been throwing away the food he makes me (try to eat). Then he was standing over me. And then I got an attitude and didn't eat anything at all. So he eased up a bit and we've discovered that I have a better possibility of eating when I'm not forced. Who'da thought? Duh.

He won't let me exercise either. But the four day weekend is over and soon as I post
this, I'm popping in a movie and riding my elliptical. Exercising is like a drug to me. When I don't do it, I have withdrawals. I'm moodier and eat even less because I didn't burn calories to get to eat. If that makes sense. Plus, in my head, I argue the whole serotonin thing. I'm happier when I exercise.

It's too early in the day to have heard from our insurance about a referral for the Emily Program. I hope I get it. There's a couple of things that run through my mind about the program. One, as I am, being anorexic, it's like watching an out of body experience. I see the bad choices I am making, I wish I could not make the bad choices, but I am just watching it happen and unfold in front of me. People are telling me, just stop it. Just eat more food. It's something you can control. But I can't. I get physically sick when I eat more than four bites of food. I will ride my elliptical for an hour and a half if I think I ate too much the day before AND not eat all that day. It's become a way of life. It has roots in me.

Second, this program scares me because I want to do it for my family so that I can get better and stop scaring the shit out of them. But it's gonna be an up hill battle until I get to the point that I want to do it for me. I am hoping that being with other people in my shoes and actually listening to what the program has to say, I will discover that I am worthy and willing to help me for me.

The word 'worthy' catches my attention. Because it's been used so often by so many people telling me I am worth something, I am worthy of happiness, and I am worthy to God. Worthy is having value or deserving. And on the spiritual side of things, I'm really not feeling it. I am so angry at God right now. I am supposed to be in His hand, Him holding and protecting me, yet instead, He's allowed me one more obstacle to conquer in life. As if I didn't have enough. Thank you God. {sarcasm}

I told a friend the other day, I am now a anorexic bipolar with PTSD and DID (disassociative identity disorder). Sounds like a title to put under my name on a business card. She made me laugh though; she said that sounds like just about every woman out there. It does have the vibe of PMS, huh?

This morning, I had to drive Nina to her school orientation (I can't believe I am a mom to a sophomore). On the drive home I was having the realization about doing the program for the family, but not for me and all of a sudden I felt so worn out and tired. I just all of a sudden didn't want to do this anymore. And then I thought about, what if I just kept my foot on the gas pedal and ran my car into the next tree? Then I felt at peace about making a decision like that. And I was wondering out of sheer curiosity if reflexes would take over and I would slam on the brakes. And I contemplated it for a few miles. Fortunately, I got my wits about me and got a grip. I'm fine now and don't want to kill myself. It was just a weird few miles.

Like I said, me writing this is gonna be from a real person, thinking real thoughts as I journey down this twisted road.

Monday, September 1, 2014

Raw.

I'm so angry and feeling vulnerable. I tell my friends and family that I have a life-threatening serious problem. I reached out, not for attention, but for allies in my war and from time to time a wingman in my battles. But instead, I feel like the car accident on I-5 that everybody, for miles and miles, stops to rubberneck the fatality, shakes their heads and keeps on driving.

I have forty friends on FB. Twenty-three views on my blog. Four people have talked to me since.

I'm angry because people I call friends continue to live in ignorance. There is so much hurt and pain in this world and you even know someone experiencing a suffering and you hide behind your computers and busy lives and not address it. I'm not saying focus on me, give me your daily attention, but damn people, to have 23 views on a post and four responses? You are selfish enough to watch the train wreck, but not person enough to help the wounded. And I'm pissed. It's not about me anymore.

24 million of all ages and genders suffer from anorexia in the United States and anorexia has the highest mortality rate of any mental illness. Fifty percent of anorexic's meet the criteria for depression. Twenty percent of people from anorexia will prematurely die from complications related to their eating disorder, including suicide and heart problems. http://www.anad.org/get-information/about-eating-disorders/eating-disorders-statistics/

I am going to lay out my experience like an open book. Maybe someone will learn from this. Maybe most of you will just "enjoy the movie". I don't care anymore who wants to be a bystander. It's obvious: it's my war. I apologize for inconveniencing you.

Saturday, August 30, 2014

Going Public.

I have a problem.

I weigh 118 pounds and I don't eat more than 700 calories a day, but I run or ride my elliptical for over an hour a day.

I freak out when I gain a pound. I'll go a whole day without eating to punish myself.

I have become angry, forgetful, irritable, depressed, hopeless, unhappy, and have turned into someone I'm not. I go through the motions of the day, numb, and just playing the part people want to see of me.

My hands shake, I get headaches and dizzy and I'm overall weak. I'm in a constant state of anxiousness and paranoia. My body has begun the first stage of shutting down because it's eating itself.

I suffer from anorexia. If I don't fix it, they tell me I could be dead in the next six months.

If my insurance approves it, I will be admitted into an outpatient facility called the Emily Program. There, I will get guidance and help to undo the damage.

Please pray for me.

Saturday, August 23, 2014

What to do?

 
I think I have a problem. No, no. It's not my obsession with canning.
You would think that at first glance.

 
There's just so much canned food lying around.

 
And I have so much more I want to do.

 
I haven't even started on the fruits.
 
Where am I going to put it all???