NAC and Paranormal Group.

At the moment, my medicine isn’t working as well as it should be working all because of one of them decided to be an asshole. It has gotten to the point where I had to leave my Paranormal Investigating team. I fucking hate that I had to do that. I felt like I belonged there and then… issues.
     I was hallucinating and hearing things which turns out it was a combination of forgetting to take NAC (it repairs neurons) and staying up late for investigations. On top of that I am struggling with trying not to cut and not relapse into being anorexic. Also I am rapid cycling and by rapid I mean every five minutes it’s a new emotion.  It’s so much fun.
     I want to go back to the team but I don’t know. Part of me says that they are better off without me and the other says they seemed happy to have you there.

 

I feel like shit without my group and really stupid that I wouldn’t have left if I had known about my NAC.

Time is too Slow

I’m unsure as to how to proceed with this post. Should I talk more about the aftermath of recovering?  Should I talk about how my weight upsets me? Should I talk about how much I want to cut myself lately? Or my decision to not date or have any type of romantic contact?
Why don’t I just talk about all of them? Let’s do that.
First on my mind: Relationship thing. I made this decision yesterday because I have become sick to hurting myself (literally) of getting hurt, violated, looking over for someone “better” or someone who fits a preferred mold. I’m done with trying to guess whether a guy likes me or not– friends or not friends? Am I good enough for you? I am done with guess and getting hurt. I have better, more worthwhile, things to do than wait for someone for me who probably doesn’t exist. I will only accept a miracle man. I man who shows me that he is brave and won’t play games. A man who is honest and strong. That man will have to accept me for who I am and all of my craziness. My emotional roller-coaster-ness.I will change for that man. 

      On top of being shunted aside for more beige-like-personalities, I’m not thin enough. It frustrates me beyond belief that there isn’t one man who genuinely believes I am beautiful but I guess my personality is such an affliction that beauty can’t over power it. Which is impressive because many have admitted that they wanted me just to get laid. 
I want so desperately to be that one woman you see and just say, “wow.” The unattainable beauty that people remember and not another person on the bus, in class, or at a party. I want to be spectacular. Then jaw-dropping when they find out that I am whip-lash smart but I’m not these. To others, I am just some rape victim who wasn’t intelligent to keep herself safe. That is what is making me want to cut. It’s hard to shut out the words because they are my own and proven through experience. I’m not sure how to handle any of this. 

An Admission of Grief and Reason


I’m struggling with eating disorders. I have tried telling my family outright but I get too scared. I worry that I am if I admit that I am struggling with this, I’ll be less than I already am.
I am eating again, but only because my stomach started cramping.
It’s still cramping. It still hurts. Mentally and physically. Every time I eat, my mind assaults me with the things people have said to me,
“Girlfriends are skinny.”
“Without your boobs you’d look like a fat twelve year old.”
“Girls who are Girlfriend-material
don’t jiggle.”
“Guys only date attractive girls.”
“Jeez, hungry much?”
“If you eat like that you’re going to end up fat.”

and then with my own thoughts: “Why do you need to eat? Look at you.” Then I’m hit with nausea.
I. Can’t. Eat.
The only time I feel… I’ve earned the to right to eat, lately, is when my hunger feels as if it is going to crawl its way up my throat; a little indescribable monster, or when I have a headache. Or when I can’t walk without feeling sick.
I avoid looking at myself; I just want to scream. I just want to scream; cut pieces of myself out and hope, hope that I will end up being good enough for someone. Good enough for me and for the mirror. I want to cut myself down to bone. I want people to know how I feel: I feel like a skeleton; I am a skeleton. I am hollow. See through. And yet…
I am not hollow. I am so filled with rage and sadness. It feels as if forest fires and icy tidal waves are at war within my chest and mind. Heart versus Thought.
I don’t think there has been a time where I haven’t been fighting something. Fear has been ever present. Everyone has told me to just say no. As if just saying no makes everything okay. If it was, I wouldn’t be writing this. I haven’t just said no, I’ve screamed it; wrote it; drawn it. When I tell people that I am scared before everything, they don’t seem to understand. They never do, and they always tell me to just remind myself it will be okay. They tell me to say no. How can this work for people? How? How can just a thought make the darkness and the things that hide within it go away? I need more than a thought because my fears are stronger and more real than just one word.
I don’t know if it is possible to make the creatures at the edge of my view go away with just no. Normally I find solace in reading but lately I have found it to be unearthing doubts and insecurities and it feels like a war between,
“I would be prettier if I was skinny.”
I would love to be that girl who is all height and brains. I would love to be able to wear loose dresses, flowy dresses, and not look pregnant. I would love to be thought of as willowy. Long legged. Sinuous.
(“For all of my claim to being smart, I am oddly fixated on something as worthless and fleeting as physical beauty.”)
And a war between this,
“I don’t need to be skinny; I’m healthy. My BMI and weight are okay for my height and age. 19.8. Remember: you are okay.” I have to remind myself that men—no, people who only find skinny people attractive are worthless; people who think being skinny makes them a more beautiful person, a better person, are idiots. Being skinny makes you nothing more than skinny.
What happened to me that made me so insecure and lacking in confidence? Why can’t I believe people when they say that I am pretty? (“Most likely because if you did, you would have a huge ego.”)
I want, so desperately, to be beautiful. I want to feel real and here. I don’t want to feel as if I am going to float away into misery. I want to be free of myself and my own head. I want to be able to look into the mirror and smile.
There. I have told you a small fraction of the reason for getting my tattoo. It will be a reminder that I am strong and I have made it through Hell and back. It will remind me that all of the horrible stuff that has happened: Is behind me. It is done. With this tattoo, I want it to be beautiful, scary because that is what I have gone through and still am, and real. I want this tattoo to symbolize, for me, that I am real and that right there on my back is beauty. There is proof that I am strong and can handle anything. There is the proof, for me, that I am finally beautiful. The image itself stands for things as well: the eyes make me feel safe, someone it watching over me—watching my back. That’s why they need to look real. The chaos star is a reminder to be me and no one else, no matter who says what. I am chaotic. The wings… Oh, the wings. If it is not obvious, the wings are my wings. They are the reminder to forget fear and fly as high as I possibly can. They are the helping hand that freed me from the chains that held me for so long. They are freedom. The Celtic knotting represents strength and the will to hold on no matter what. They remind me that I have been strong and no one can say differently.

Cissy

 

This. Is. BATSHIT INSANE!

I haven’t been doing P90x and I feel horrible about it. I got the dvds I needed today, though, so I can finally do them.
My potters wheel? Turns out that it needs to be fixed and the lady of whom we bought it from lied to us. Bitch.
I have tired doing sketches but I am having a really hard time finding a clean art-pad. I might have to go back to painting. Which is messy and Dad gets pissed.
I didn’t go to swim practice today because I felt downright awful.
My brother helped me with SAT’s today and I finally understand how to figure out the word problems.

My anxiety hasn’t really gotten any better because I haven’t been, in my opinion, finishing anything. I feel lazy and stupid. Mom says to just set a schedule because she knows I do well with those. She doesn’t really make me feel motivated at the moment because she just reminds me of all of the other things I need and should be doing or should have or needed to be finished already. I am beyond frustrated with everyone and myself.

I need to clean my room
I need to attend swim team
I need to finish my paintings
I need to throw on the wheel
I need to make three pies
I need to study for the SAT’s
I need to do school
I need to do yard work
I need read the books people have given me
I need to weed the garden
I need to use my skateboard
I need to schedule a dentist appointment
I need to keep the house clean
I need to pray
I need to learn to play an instrument
I need to practice singing
I need to finish writing songs for the band
I need to get a job so I can pay for my tattoo
I need to learn to drive

I am going to go batshit insane. That or kill someone.

No Drama

The most common thing I have heard about panic attacks are that panic attacks are always ‘quite a show’ and that they are dramatic. They’re not, usually; however, that doesn’t mean that they are not any less terrifying, painful, or have any less of an effect on a person. Mine have never been super dramatic or that I can remember.
I have had panic attacks since I was five years old. I get them multiple times per day and what is worse, is that I can’t predict them. I feel out of control. On top of dealing with panic attacks, I deal with depression, eating disorders, and hallucinations . My life has been, what seems, an everlasting battle between self-control and the urge to just let go; go into an insanity spiral.

A good portion of people ask me to describe a panic attack because they find it hard to believe, and I don’t blame them, that I have that many a day. A panic attack for me is as if someone is crushing my heart, while punching me in the stomach, then squeezing my head, and all I want to do is run away screaming or throw things.Yet I am terrified of moving. When I do have a panic attack, my hallucinations goes into overdrive: I see and hear things that only make it worse because I have yet figured out how to control that. On occasion, my seeing things will trigger a panic attack; aside from the random ones.

I am doing my best to deal with all of this with a sense of grace and intelligence. It is hard but I am lucky enough to have the help of my family and friends. That is what this blog will be about: my journey to finding control over my own mind. Hopefully it will work and maybe it will help someone else like me as well.