"Understood, My Deariee"

Could it be? Is it really? It is! A (relatively) positive post!

Yesterday I ran into my friend EN in the middle of the street (if you don't remember her, feel free to reacquaint yourself here). She asked me what food, besides broccoli, ketchup and green apples I like to eat, to which I shrugged and answered Japanese food.

[Aside: Yes, she was lightly making fun of my eating by bringing up the foods she did. And I really don't like to eat anything, so I just said something that I knew I do sometimes eat.]

She then suggested that we should go out to eat Japanese food together and watch Finding Nemo, and I agreed that this would be a good plan. But I was immediately anxious. Not only does food scare me, but I am just 100% unable to eat in front of other people. In fact I haven't eaten in front of another person since I left my residential treatment program about three years ago, including during several stints in both the medical and psychiatric wards of the hospital (more on those at a later date).

So instead of waiting until the fated day to make up some excuse as to why I couldn't hang out with her, I sent E the following email:

Hello EN,

I hope your day of hooky is treating you well! I kind of wanted to talk to you about our sushi/Nemo plans for next week.

Firstly, I would like to say that I would like nothing more than to watch Finding Nemo with you! So we are definitely on for that. But about the sushi... my eating habits are, as you know, "special" and one of my really big difficulties is eating in front of other people. I'm having a really hard time with that right now, so I was wondering-- could I get a rain check for the sushi until conditions improve? I know it doesn't make much sense and please don't take it personally (because it is NOT AT ALL PERSONAL), but it's just something that's incredibly hard for me to do.

Sorry for being a crazy person! And I hope you understand.

I received this reply a few hours later:

Understood my deariee. Nemo probs Wednesday night :)

I was so pleased with myself for coming clean to E and with her simple non-derogatory response. Sure, I didn't tell her everything that is going on with me, but at least I didn't get myself into a situation like I did with KA's birthday dinner.

And honestly, what could be better than being understood?

Must Love Dogs

A and I were talking today about our childhoods. I don't remember much of mine, so she helped fill in a lot of the details. We started talking about books that we read-- Yossel Zissel and the Wisdom of Chelm, the Fox series (like Fox in Love and Fox on Wheels), Eloise, the Wayside School series, Tell Me A Mitzi, the Runaway Bunny and Love You Forever. If you have never read these books, I urge you to go to your neighborhood library and read them immediately. Yes, I know they are children's books, but they are probably some of the greatest literature I have ever read (and I am quite the book worm). We also talked about things that we used to do, like watch Shelley Duvall's Faerie Tale Theatre and visit Fairy Tale Forest. As a result of this conversation I have come to the following conclusion:

My imaginary children are going to be rockstars.

I don't think I could actually be a mother. Firstly, I can't imagine finding someone with whom I would like to have a child. Nor can I imagine someone who would like to have a child with me. Secondly, I don't know if I would feel okay about passing on my genes to another human being. Finally, I don't think I would know how to be a good mother-- I guess I don't really have a stellar example of what a mother should do.

But anyway, I was thinking back to these books and the sentiment they reflect-- mostly love. I don't think I have ever really loved another human being but I 100% certainly love my dogs. And I know I am a fantastic mother to them. Dr. Freud pointed out at our last meeting that I don't attach myself to others, but I guess she (foolishly) wasn't counting my puppies. Dogs are just so much simpler-- they are non-judgmental, kindhearted and they love unconditionally. I have never met a person that meets those criteria.

I'll love you forever, I'll like you for always, as long as I'm living, my baby you'll be.

I guess it's kind of sad that I have never really felt this genuine love from another human being. But getting it from (and giving it to) my dogs is the greatest thing in the world.

Avoidance Kills

Today is my coworker KA's birthday. She invited me to a dinner in a nice restaurant downtown with her and her friends. I made up an excuse not to go. Why? Because I'm terrified of social situations and I can't eat in front of people.

When things like this happen I hate myself more and more. Each instance of avoidance just makes me feel like more of a failure. And I know that the more I turn people down the less likely they are to ask me to do something in the future, so I am essentially digging my own grave.

As soon as I turned my friend down I emailed my sister, A, who works in an OCD clinic that focuses on cognitive behavioral therapy. She was trying to get me to challenge my anxiety and accept the invitation, but I was absolutely crippled. She applauded me for reaching out to her, but I'm pretty sure she was just trying to make me feel better about myself. It didn't work.

I hate myself, and every day it seems like I demonstrate to myself why this is.

Breathe

Breathe, Anna Nalick

Lying And Dying

I'd say I spend a good 75% of my life acting. Pretty much any time I'm not alone I'm putting on a facade. When people casually ask how I'm doing, I never tell them the truth. Instead I smile and pretend I'm not plotting my own death. And it's fucking tiring.

I want to scream. I just want to tell everyone everything that is running through my mind. I don't want to be imprisoned in a persona any longer. But being real would be too costly-- I'd likely lose any company and all of my freedom.

It's even hard for me to be honest with Shrinkiepoo and Dr. Freud (the analyst). They know I'm suicidal, depressed, NOS, whatever, but sometimes I have specific things that I want to talk about but it's so difficult for me to bring up. For some reason I take comfort in allowing them to steer the conversation, abdicating my control and, often, my sanity. Why? I think part of the reason is that I want them to like me, to see me as the perfect patient. If I were to bring up something that were to change that image I don't know how I'd feel about myself. Yes, that's messed up. I recognize that.

It's really painful to have to reach out to the blogosphere for help because I have no where else to turn. I really appreciate you, reader, but it still feels as if no one is there. If I were to die today no one would even look for my body until Thursday at the earliest (because that's the day I see Shrinkiepoo). No one would take time out of their lives to go to my funeral. It's like I'm just an accessory to other people's lives-- I may slightly alter things, but ultimately I'm expendable.

Shit.

I really need to get off the Geodon. Even at this dose I am not, how shall I say, well.

Don't Look At Me

Today, as I do every Thursday, I visited Shrinkiepoo. I don't think it's good that I leave my sessions with all treatment professionals feeling worse than when I entered them.

Shrinkiepoo asked whether I was lonely, to which I replied "yes and no." I desperately want someone to connect with, but I hate physically being with other people. This then evolved into a conversation about body image...

I confessed to him that part of the reason that it's hard for me to be social is that I'm a) afraid there will be food involved, and b) disgusted with my entire appearance and am terrified of others thinking I'm fat. Shrinkiepoo then asked if it was hard to go and visit him each week, and I told him yes because I think he is secretly measuring my fatness when he walks behind me into the office (oh, and I'm also not comfortable with people walking behind me for an entirely different reason). He basically confirmed that he is looking at my "figure" and I immediately got extremely anxious. One of the reasons I broke up with my ex-therapist was that I was terrified of walking into his office because he'd sometimes comment that I "looked thin." Which in the mind of an anorexic girl means "I'm looking at you, judging you by your appearance and you're fat." (I'm happy to translate for you, reader, from English to anorexia. Don't ask me how we are able to discern hidden-- and often opposite-- meanings of everyday phrases. It comes with the package, I suppose.)

Shrinkiepoo also called me "gorgeous" which I know is a flat-out LIE because I am a troll.

Nonetheless, I left the session feeling insecure, anxious, disgusting and (even more) depressed. When I got home I immediately self-harmed.

I'm just tired of crappy sessions and crappy drugs and crappy days. Can't I pretty please have a break?

God Help The Outcasts

God Help The Outcasts, The Hunchback of Notre Dame

I don't know if You can hear me
Or if You're even there
I don't know if You would listen
To a gypsy's prayer
Yes, I know I'm just an outcast
I shouldn't speak to you
Still I see Your face and wonder
Were You once an outcast too?

God help the outcasts
Hungry from birth
Show them the mercy
They don't find on earth
God help my people
We look to You still
God help the outcasts
Or nobody will

I ask for wealth
I ask for fame
I ask for glory to shine on my name
I ask for love I can possess
I ask for God and His angels to bless me

I ask for nothing I can get by
But I know so many
Less lucky than I
Please help my people
The poor and downtrod
I thought we all were
The children of God
God help the outcasts
Children of God

Date With Freud

I'm sorry for not posting yesterday. I guess I just felt too tired to have some sort of perspective on the day. I'll make up for it now, though!

Yesterday I had the first of eight sessions with a psychoanalyst consultant. I'll start off by saying that I really don't believe in psychoanalysis (Freud was on a lot of cocaine) but my shrink (whom I have affectionately nicknamed Shrinkiepoo) has been pestering me to go. He believes that the psychoanalyst will help "discover" the cause of my depression-- likely something repressed from my childhood. I cannot identify an external cause of my depression, I just feel I am brain damaged. But EVERYONE and their mom believes I was molested. I'm pretty sure I wasn't molested, and it frustrates me when people go searching for a cause that just doesn't exist. In fact, one of the most difficult things about my NOS disorders is that they seem to just be there with no tangible explanation.

I almost started to cry when the analyst asked me if I had friends, but I am an EXPERT (yes, expert) at holding back my tears. She commented on that too, and I simply told her that I don't like to express emotions in public. I know it's irrational, but I feel emotionally slutty when I share too much too soon. I really don't want to cry during any of the consultations.

That being said, it was a pretty standard intake interview. I always find them comical because everyone asks the same questions and I basically have a script. I was pleased with the analyst's waiting room, however, because she had this Magritte painting (Le Retour, or The Return) on the wall, and Magritte is the one artist I am obsessed with.

(Also, let's just say thank goodness that she didn't ask me to lay down on her couch because I would have had a panic attack.)

I'm seeing her again on Friday. I want to be hopeful that she'll say or do something that changes my life for the better, but I really can't say I believe she will. Oy vey.

A Busy Two Days

Remember how I mentioned on Saturday that I backed out of visiting my friend for a weekend? Well, I felt really guilty so I invited him to stay with me here. He came on Sunday morning and just left a at 7 pm tonight. We had a pretty low-key weekend-- I offered to take him to the various sights and activities throughout the city, like museums, zoos, aquariums and bowling, but he just seemed to want to walk around. Which was 100% fine with me because I am broke!

One of the reasons that I didn't want to see him (that I mentioned in the aforementioned post) was that my eating is not really very "healthy" right now. I have a CRIPPLING fear of eating in front of other people, not to mention a crippling fear of eating. The friend, S, didn't pressure me at all! He sometimes asked "So you're going to go the whole two days without eating?" and begged to cook for me, but he allowed me to be disordered. I was astonished. And uncomfortable. But at least I didn't have to worry about making up a new excuse for not eating at every meal.

We also had sex. It's never really fun for me, but I figure that it's what the other person wants and it's what the "normal" girl is doing and I want to be "normal." It's also really validating. But I cringed at all of his displays of affection-- putting his arms around my waist or kissing me-- during the day following the sex. I'm not completely sure as to why this happened, but I found it interesting, no?

I'm really tired, so I apologize if this post is slightly non-sequitur. A good night to all who are reading this.

Terrible

Tomorrow is Sunday, and I'm terrified. I have nothing to do, and I'm pretty sure I'm not going to sleep well (why would I? I never sleep well) so I'm going to be conscious for the majority of the day. What can I do? I'll go running, but that will only take about two hours out of my day. And then take a shower. And then what?

I was supposed to go visit a friend in a different city this weekend, but I backed out because I am too depressed, social phobic and my eating is not really in a condition to be visible to the public.

I just want to die.

Am I Rare?

As I have mentioned before, I am a pre-med student a very competitive uni. In order to pay the exorbitant tuition bills I have a few jobs, one of them being a research assistant in a clinical psychology laboratory. Part of my job is to code some data, and one of the data points is the severity/presence-absence of suicidal ideation. I have noticed that very few people, even if they are diagnosed with depression or any other psychiatric disorder, report suicidal thoughts. Now, this could be that they just don't want to report it because they are ashamed or they want to maintain privacy or something in that vein, but it also could be that suicidal ideation is really rare.

Which amazes me.

I have a TERRIBLE memory of my life before the age of 16 years, but I do remember being escorted from my fourth grade classroom to the school psychologist because I expressed that I wanted to kill myself. The thoughts (and actions) haven't stopped since. So it boggles my mind that someone could go through life with the pleasure of never having this extremely painful thought. That concept is just so foreign to me. Does that make me a rarity?

I am pretty much 100% sure that suicide will take my life. I am very young and the years I have experienced thus far have really tested my patience. I can't imagine living 60 more years this way. Yes, I know that I am making the assumption that things won't change, but I make that assumption based on the past 13 years of data. In fact, living to old age terrifies the hell out of me because I can only imagine it as several years of mental anguish. I'd rather be dead.

So if you haven't already deduced this, I'm not in a very good state of mind right now. And it's excruciatingly painful to know that I am relatively alone.

Let Me Take You Down

I've been chronically depressed (bipolar? NOS?) for 13 years. But even though I'm always down, some days I dip so low that it seems unbearable. I've been in one of those ultra-low dips recently. Today, however, was relatively moderate. I have a few theories as to why:

1. Yesterday I had an extremely meaningful conversation with one of my sisters, A, who literally talked me down from a ledge.
2. I'm finally off Geodon, an atypical antipsychotic which I'm pretty sure made me atypically psychotic.
3. As I mentioned before, I recently celebrated my birthday. Although that makes no difference to me whatsoever, I decided that instead of accepting gifts for myself I would ask my friends and family to instead make a donation to the World Wildlife Fund. If I can save one polar bear's life, I will have served my purpose.
4. My best friend ES just got out of rehab and is doing fantastically well. I'm so proud of her!

That being said, I am considering checking myself back into treatment. I have scared myself over the past few days-- suffice it to say it was NOT pretty. But I'm always conflicted, because I'm pretty sure I don't believe that my brain can change so fundamentally that I could somehow be-- gasp!-- happy. Years and years of intense therapy, medication and hospitalization that have left me in the same state as always (or maybe even worse off) doesn't give me hope that the next therapist, drug or hospital will do the trick. So I figure why abandon what I have worked so hard for (i.e., competitive uni, good jobs) for something that will likely prove fruitless?

I know there's no "magic pill" to cure depression, but I don't feel like I have time to mess around with therapy and drugs that supposedly take three weeks to kick in but never do.

Am I impatient? I think I have waited long enough.

A Note About "Wait Until Dark"

I'd like to talk about my one-act play "Wait Until Dark" that I "wrote" in my last post.

CB and I met several years ago in treatment, both suffering from eating disorders. We remained close after we were discharged, and we have endured a lot together. We had the kind of relationship that I believe can only be fostered when you are isolated from the rest of the world-- a semi-therapeutic one that is probably slightly dysfunctional. She'd often reach out to me for support, and I'd reach out to her too. But whenever I did so, her advice would inevitably be to switch shrinks, move back in with my parents (NOT a good idea), or to simply "change." Not surprisingly, I didn't follow her advice that often and it apparently pissed her off.

You can see that at the beginning of the play I was apologetic-- apologizing TO HER for MY PROBLEMS! Have you heard of anything more ridiculous? But I don't consider myself to have many friends so I tend to be a doormat and sacrifice my happiness for others.

But somewhere between CB telling me that I was "playing the victim" and invalidating my feelings something snapped. Why was I apologizing to her? I think I realized that having a "friend" who would belittle me was actually worse than not having said friend. And so I (very painfully) stood up for myself, telling her that I would NOT have her blame me for my NOS disorders-- I do that enough myself.

Her response is indicative of her maturity. So it really is her loss.

Although I am saddened that I have lost a "friend" (I use that term loosely), I am damn proud of myself for not being emotionally abused by another holier-than-thou person.

We need a break from that, don't we?

"Wait Until Dark"

A one-act play adapted (read: copied) from a text message conversation

[CB has borderline personality disorder, likes having sex with many random guys and then crying to NOS about how they don't reflect love back at her. NOS is hysterical and very depressed. She has reached out to CB in crisis looking for comfort. NOS is unreceptive to CB's suggestion to "just get over it."]

CB: I don't know what to say anymore. It doesn't seem like you want to help yourself. All that I say goes in one ear and out the other.
NOS: I'm sorry. I appreciate your support, but I'm just trying to say that some things aren't as easy for me than they are for others.
CB: You have to stop playing the victim. They [sic] are people far more worse of [sic] than you. Life isn't supposed to be easy. Everyone has problems and struggles.
NOS: I know I'm fortunate, but in some ways I'm not. I'm not playing anything. I genuinely suffer. I'm genuinely sick and there's no cure.
CB: I suffer too. Everyday. And I have depression and an ED and I cope and live my life. There are ways to better yourself. Don't tell me there's no cure. If there wasn't I wouldn't be doing what I do today. I'm not sure if I can continue being your friend if it's always so negative. It's not healthy.
NOS: I've been nothing but supportive of you. But I obviously can't make your decisions for you. But personally I don't want a friend who blames me for my problems.
CB: I'm not blaming you and I'm not going to get into this convo. I never said you weren't supportive, but I have to surround myself with positive people.
NOS: Your empathy is astounding. And I must say, it's your loss.
CB: What exactly am I losing?

[End scene]

Are You There God? It's Me, NOS

Blessed, Simon and Garfunkel
"Oh lord why have you forsaken me?"

I'm not religious. At all. But that wasn't always the case-- I used to go to a private religious school where they would devote a third of the day to prayer, and therefore all of my friends were of the same religion. Basically it was part of my identity.

In retrospect, however, I can tell that I never really believed in it. I just did it-- the customs, the prayers-- because that's what my parents wanted me to do. I actually remember getting hit once by my dad when I said I didn't want to go to services.

But nowadays my faith has dwindled even more. What kind of god would let me go through life without experiencing happiness and (worse) always experiencing pain? What kind of god would let people all around the world suffer so much more than me?

I envy those who have faith in something-- they tell me that it's a great source of strength and support.

Maybe my problem is that I'm just way too cynical for religion? Too well-versed in science (as a pre-med student) to imagine there's anything else?

Oh well. I don't really feel the void. I just hate the suffering.

Apologies Can Suck

This year I met a really nice girl named EN who quickly became a friend. We had a couple of classes in common and we were in a club together, so we spent a lot of time together. (Background: I am currently at a very competitive university. I also don't have many people in my life who I would consider friends.)

But throughout the year I felt like it was less of a give-and-take relationship than it was an NOS-gives-EN-takes relationship. I would always be the one giving her notes to copy because she sometimes didn't feel like paying attention even if she was in class, I would be the one comforting her when she felt sad. I once confessed to her that I "used to be" anorexic (read: lied, and didn't tell her about my current eating disorder), and ever since then she teases me in public about my "special" eating habits. But I felt powerless to stand up for myself because if I did, that would bring my friend-at-uni count to a zero. Not that it was even at one to begin with.

A couple of weeks ago I went over to her house to give her something for our club, and she began to cry and talk about how she had been feeling sad recently. She told me about how she's planning on spending her 21st birthday in Scotland because she didn't want to be with her friends in the US , failing to realize that it was MY BIRTHDAY ON THE DAY THAT THIS HAPPENED. She went on and on about herself and I listened, but I really just wanted to punch her in the face. NOT ONCE in our friendship has she asked me if I was okay. And I know that's partially my fault because I don't open up about myself easily, but it would be nice to know that she cared about my feelings.

Then, as a "reward" for being such a good friend, she asked me to spend the 4th of July with her and her roommates. She never called to follow up.

Today I got an email from her apologizing for everything-- everything except for not asking me if I was okay. I sent an email back saying that she had "no reason to apologize" (lie). But really, I didn't want to accept her apology. She didn't apologize for the one thing that I really cared about-- her obliviousness to my suffering. And now I am again trapped, because I can't retract what I have said and I'm not in a position to stand up for myself. But I guess I kind of dug my own grave (with a little help from my friends).

The moral of the story? Apologies can suck. Hard. But loneliness sucks harder.

Bonus moral: The Beatles are fantastic.

Goodbye To The Man In The Mirror

Michael Jackson, 1958-2009

Let's start with a depressing post, shall we?

Today, as a loyal Michael fan, I watched his memorial service at the Staples Center on approximately every channel offered. And cried like a buffoon. But who can blame me, really? Don't try and tell me you didn't lose your shit after Brooke Shields's speech or Paris Jackson's expression of love because I KNOW you did.

One thing that caught me off guard was Reverend Al Sharpton's one statement to Michael's children:

There was nothing strange about your daddy. What was strange was what your daddy had to deal with.

Um, I don't think it would be possible to phrase any sentiment more eloquently than this. Michael pretty much had the shittiest childhood ever, and even in adulthood he never got a break. And this presented itself in many ways-- in his creativity, in his sympathy, in becoming reclusive, in his never-ending plastic surgery binge that distanced his body from his obvious pain.

And me? I'm nowhere near Michael Jackson in any way. I think I have had a much less painful life than he had, and I cannot even begin to touch his awesomeness. But I think I do know something about dealing with a lot of shit and being labeled "strange." I can't even begin to describe how painful it is to be falsely accused of something, misunderstood and belittled. These "trials and tribulations" have also manifested themselves in me-- in my NOS disorders.

I'm sorry, Michael, that you had to endure what you did. I hope you have now found some relief.

Hidey Ho, Winslows

The last 13-or-so years of my life have been... tumultuous.

I have been seeing various treatment professionals (therapists, psychiatrists, dietitians, you name it) since I was 8 years old, and no one has been able to figure me out. Am I depressed? Am I bipolar? Am I anorexic? Am I bulimic? Am I obsessive-compulsive? Am I social phobic? Do I have PTSD? The answers to these questions change what seems like on a daily basis. Well, maybe just shrink-to-shrink.

Basically, everyone has an opinion, but no one has an answer. So how do I describe myself? I'm just... Not Otherwise Specified.

So I have decided to launch a blog chronicling the life of a girl who defies definition, but who most certainly has problems. I'm not 100% sure what this blog will turn out to look like, but I guess time will tell!