Urge To Purge

Think about it.

Mon, 22 Apr 2013 20:17:31 -0700

If you think about it, your body is really just a vesicle for your soul to move through in life. Every soul is different, therefore every body is different. Your physical body is just a car, not the driver. The thing inside of you is the driver.
I don’t know what i’m saying anymore.

WASTELAND

Mon, 22 Apr 2013 11:38:01 -0700

Monday, April 22, 2012, 5:00 PM

Wasteland

I am writing right now in the nearby cafe, sipping my iced coffee and letting my fingers do the talking. A few people walk in and walk out, clutching bags of donuts or plastic cups of iced coffee. They come here to study, to read, to catch up with old friends, or to sit quietly, like I am, and go through the motions of every day life. In front of my seat, a woman stands at the cashier, her arms crossed against her chest, eyes looking up at the menu board. I notice her the minute she walks in, and if you saw her you would notice too. She’s my height, petite, with shoulder length, dark brown hair and a angular, pretty face with sharp, yet delicate features. She’s dressed simply in black flip flops, a pair of dark denim shorts with sassy zebra-print details and a plain white tank top. Slung over her shoulder is a mahogany Long Champ tote bag. I wish I looked at her face longer than I did. If you had seen her, though, you wouldn’t have taken much notice of her face either. The only part I see now of her face is the left side of her - the blush of her cheek, the lines around part of her mouth and the tired, deep concave under her left eye.

She stares at the drinks menu board, and drops her eyes to the display counter. She contemplates the donuts in the display case far longer than she does the drinks menu. I wonder what she’s thinking, if we share the same thoughts I once had about donuts. The other woman in line at the cashier glimpses at her and looks away immediately, as if uncomfortable. “What donut do you want?,” she asks her daughters. 3 chocolate glazed donuts, please. After a few minutes, the woman in the white tank top places an order. I can barely hear her voice over the music, and the hustle and bustle of the cafe. It’s tiny, just like her. The woman behind the cashier looks at her, smiles ever so politely, takes her order and looks away. You might wonder what they’re trying so hard to look away from. There’s absolutely nothing striking about her appearance. To the untrained eye, she’s just another woman coming in for coffee. To me, she’s the splitting image of a past I left behind a long time ago. It is painful to look at her, and yet I can’t find it in me to look away the way the others did. I let go and let her body draw me in, and I am lost in that image.

Underneath the low halogen lights of the cafe, her body is a cragged and shadowy wasteland of skin and bone. Her spine juts out from her back, a harsh mountain range ripping across a flatland of yellowing skin. Her shoulder blades are so sharp and pointy, and I wonder to myself if its possible for them to cut her skin, bursting through her back like a pair of featherless wings. What is supposed to be the round of her shoulders is dotted with more sharp peaks. Looking at the space between her one shoulder to the other, I’m compelled to draw a line between them like connect the dots. I always liked playing connect the dots. My eyes follow the mountain range of her spine down to the hollow between her legs. There’s nothing there. No mounds of flesh where thighs are supposed to be; just the hollowed, empty mouth of a cavernous space. Her ankles are so tiny, I am afraid that they will break under the pressure of what little weight it has to sustain. And her arms, her fragile, bony arms. She reminds me of the little skeletons of birds I used to look at in the Science laboratory of my high school. I always wondered how they died.

Looking at her, taking in her appearance, images of my old self flit through my mind, between the view of woman in front of me and the words I have written on the page. I am 17 years old again, as empty and fragile as a beautiful porcelain doll. You could probably pick me up with one hand and place me on your knee, too. Clothes hang from the wire hanger of my frame, hiding my own mountainous region of skin and bone. I am a 5”2, 102 pound high school student, and whether I am conscious of it or not, my body is wasting away from bulimia and anorexia. Other girls in my school tell me to eat something, that I look pale, that it’s already too much. I smile, and wonder what they’re talking about. “I feel fine!,” I gush. Random people I meet look at me and ask, with a look of concern on their face, “You look pale, are you ok? You should eat something.” I smile politely and nod. “I feel fine,” I say to myself. My diet consists of 3 cups of boiled vegetables a day, or fruits, if I am in the mood. Sometimes, I’ll have a glass of soy milk or a bowl of plain cereal. I don’t feel hunger like other people do. My body is used to scraping by with what little food I consume.

The only time I don’t feel fine is when I binge on whatever food I can find or purchase. Sweets, junk food, cold pizza, fast food meals. That’s OK, though. I run the water in the shower, bloat myself with gallons of water until my stomach protrudes like a sickly African child and purge the contents of my stomach into the toilet with a toothbrush. I choose a toothbrush with a round rubber end because it does’t make my throat bleed like the others do, or the way my nails do as they scrape against my flesh. I ready myself for the first wave of purging. My skeletal frame rattles against the toilet bowl with each heaving retch. A sharp pain shoots down my throat and spreads throughout my chest. I close my eyes and white dots of light burst from underneath my lids. I repeat the process of bloating and purging. Same stabbing motion, same bursts of light, same searing pain. “It’s ok,” I think to myself in the dark recess of my mind, “Just a little bit more until you’re clean and pure and perfect again.” Once I finish, I stand up, turn to my side and look at myself in the mirror. Underneath the harshness of the white fluorescent bathroom lights, a perfect juxtaposition to the woman standing in front of me, I do a mental checklist of my body. Jutting hip bones, check. Carved out stomach, check. Knobbly rib cage, check. I wash my mouth, clean the bathroom and smoke a cigarette in the attic. I enjoy the nicotine rush, close my eyes and blow streams of smoke into the darkness. I feel fine again.

I wrench myself away from those haunting memories and slip back into the present. I am 22 years old again. Tattoos. Black boots. 130 or so pounds. Strong. My heart sinks ever so slightly at the memory, and I am filled with a sense of sadness and mourning.

I look up from my tablet. The cashier woman and I make eye contact, and she smiles for a split second. The woman in the white tank top is still waiting for her coffee and I wonder if she’s staying in, or having her coffee for take away; inwardly, I hope she stays. I imagine she is sitting at a table near me, and myself glancing up every now and then to look at her. I want to see her face, and look at her eyes; see if she sees things the way I did once upon a time. Other people walk into the cafe, choosing which donuts and coffee they’ll have for a nice, summery Monday afternoon. A couple walks in, a handsome sporty looking man and his girlfriend, cute and stylish in her sheer black button down, black and white striped mini skirt and gold ballet flats. They place their orders and take a seat next to the table I am sitting at. Maybe the woman in the white tank top can sit somewhere else.

By the time I look up again, she is headed out of the door with a cup of coffee in her hand and I am left to sit there quietly, with nothing but a few seconds of her tired eyes and the image of a cragged and shadowy wasteland. I wonder where she’s going. I wonder where she is now.

I wish she stayed.

Turning arrows into flowers.

Wed, 17 Apr 2013 19:17:08 -0700

Turning arrows into flowers.:

I got pt. 2 of my quarter sleeve yesterday. I got a bodhi tree, which is something I had been wanting since the started getting inked. The arrows aren’t on my arm yet, but I’ll get there in time. Maybe next week. Anyway my ink is in reference to one of my favorite stories about the Life of Buddha. It’s in the link I provided above. I’ll be posting a photo of my sleeve in another post.

Peace.

Do not be afraid.

Wed, 17 Apr 2013 19:05:11 -0700

Do not be afraid.

We met. We loved. We parted ways.

Wed, 17 Apr 2013 12:29:00 -0700

I am reading to you from a letter because what I have to say is very important, and I can’t afford to make mistakes with what I am about to tell you.

Dear J,

I want to apologize for disappearing for the past few days. Hopefully you’ve been well. I needed some time to think to myself and deliberate the situation. I’ve been really confused about you and us, to be honest. I remember the day you told me that we could be official again, and I couldn’t give you a straight answer. Since we broke up and started dating again, I’d been trying so hard and for so long to be the girl you wanted me to be, to be better for you. Finally, after a year of dating, you asked me to be your girlfriend!!! I thought I’d be jumping for joy and absolutely thrilled; however, in reality it was just the opposite. I knew then that something was wrong and that I need to think carefully about what I’d do next. Eventually of course I chose to be with you, but the doubts never went away. Did I really want to be with you? Did I love you as much thought I did? Sometimes I’d look at you and look for something deeper, something underneath the surface that I might have missed. The kind of something that would make me certain that I wanted to stay. I never found it. Not in you. Not in me.

Since we got together again, I realized that my decision to be with you again wasn’t based on how much I loved you and how much I wanted to be with you; rather, it was based on being afraid of being alone. I was terrified that no one would love or understand me the way you did. I was afraid of being left to my own devices. What if I fell apart again? It was based on thinking that maybe I’d love you the way I used to, and maybe you’d love me the way you used to as well. It was based on thinking that maybe if we got together again, things would go back to the way they were where everything was nice and pleasant, and we were all friends. I thought maybe it’d fix myself and everything that was broken before. I realize now that clinging onto some far away past is holding me back. From what, I don’t know; but I feel like I’m trapped between the person I was and the person I want to be.

Another thing I realized while I was away is that I’m not the same person I used to be. The things I needed back then, the attention I craved or the kind of love I wanted isn’t want I need or want now. I don’t need or want anything except to be OK with myself. I realize that I am actually OK with who I am. I don’t have to change a hair on my head. I’m OK with being on my own without the safety net that you provided. I know you were there through my toughest days and I am ultimately grateful for all the years of love, understanding and patience that you’ve blessed me with; however, I think it’s time to move on. To put it one way, you were a character in a chapter in the story of my life. We met, we loved, and we parted ways. If by now you still don’t understand what I am trying to say then here it is in all its plainness and simplicity: I loved you so much. I will always love you as much, for being you and the wonderful person that you are. The sad reality is just that I don’t love you enough to want to be with you anymore.

It’s difficult to write, and trust me even more difficult to say, but there’s just no way around it. I understand that by letting you go, I am letting go of a wonderful person and all of the wonderful people that I had met when I was with you. I am letting go of the possibility of being friends with D, F, N, M, and all the people who love you. I am letting go of an amazing part of my life and I’m even letting go of a future we may have had together. I’m letting go of fur-babies Baby B and our little A. However, you deserve better. You deserve someone who will love you the way you deserve to be loved, with more fervor and passion than I could ever have mustered. I just can’t love you like that anymore, but you deserve someone who will. I hope she knows how to bake.

Good bye, J

All my love,
S

We’ll all be ok.

Sun, 14 Apr 2013 06:30:33 -0700

We’ll all be ok.

Anti-bully Program - Warriors, not worriers.

Fri, 12 Apr 2013 20:20:05 -0700

Today I am partaking in what might be the very first BJJ anti-bully program in the city. I’ll be volunteering at my gym to assist my coach in teaching young children and teenagers ways to defend themselves should they be victimized by bullies. We’re not teaching them to fight back by inflicting pain or being violent. Our first and foremost philosophy regarding bullies is PACIFISM; to exchange peaceful words, not fists. We’re teaching them to fight back by standing up for themselves and not allowing themselves to be pushed around. We’re teaching them how to strengthen their heart, mind and soul against the damaging effects of bullying. We’re teaching them how to be WARRIORS, not WORRIERS.

This project has been in the works for a few months now and it is something very close to my heart. My coach decide to begin the program after his own daughter, a sweet, smiling and vivacious young girl, was bullied in school. I am so afraid that those bullies are going to take away her smile and passion for life. If you’ve read through my journal, you’ll know how strong a stance I take against bullying since I myself was bullied growing up. People don’t understand the toll that bullying takes on someones mind, heart and soul. With every mean word or deed, it whittles away at you like a knife chipping away at a piece of wood; bullies will keep chipping away you until there’s nothing left. Bullying is like being forced to drink little doses of poison every day, and instead of the swift death that you crave for, you’re instead forced to die a slow painful death EVERYDAY; it’s not a death that involves extinguishing bodily, but rather the kind of death that leaves you a helpless bystander as you watch your soul wither and fade, and your heart dry, shrivel and crumble. Sometimes the slow painful death is too much for some people to take, that they to decide to take their own deaths into their own hands…I don’t know how many times my heart has broken every time I read or hear about someone committing suicide because of bullying…I don’t know how many times my heart has burned and flared with anger every time someone close to me is being bullied…

Bullying is so cruel, it is something I would never wish on anyone else, not even on my own bullies.

Once I grew up, I swore on my life that I would defend people who were or were being victimized by bullies. There have been countless times where I have stepped in to defend a friend or a family member from them. If I could help a child or an adult learn how to defend themselves; if I could be part of the process that will strengthen their mind, heart and body; if I could look into a person’s eyes and tell them, “One day they are going to have the strength to stand up for yourself. One day you will never have to feel the way you do now. One day you’re going to be able to live and be proud of who you are,” then I will have fulfilled one purpose here on Earth.

Besides, trust me, from one bullied kid (me) to another, once you’ve grown up and come to realize certain things about bullies and why they do what they do, the only thing you’ll want to do after helping yourself, is to help them too. Perhaps after this, I’ll dedicate a post to bullies, or to people who were bullies; after all, they’re people too, and they’re just as broken and bent as everyone else.

You are enough.

Fri, 12 Apr 2013 13:31:37 -0700

You are enough.

Because we can make it stop.

Fri, 12 Apr 2013 08:01:40 -0700

Because we can make it stop.

Tragedy

Fri, 12 Apr 2013 07:14:53 -0700

“Perchance, tragedy happens for a reason; sometimes, it has no apparent reason, and whatever its reason, intrinsic or fortuitous; tragedy, as an inevitable reality in human existence, will either make a person’s life stronger or intolerable to live.”

Just this evening, I found out that the brother of someone very dear to me had passed away from a heart attack. I don’t know all the details, but I will as I am seeing my dear friend later on. My heart goes out to him and his family, and to anyone who has ever had to experience the pain of losing someone so precious.

Photo

Fri, 12 Apr 2013 06:03:35 -0700

Love lost, love found.

Thu, 11 Apr 2013 01:26:51 -0700

This is going to my first real post in a year. A YEAR. The last thing I “wrote” was a reimbursement form for an event I did. I haven’t done much writing (on or offline) so you’ll have to excuse me if my post seems a bit garbled. This isn’t going to have a real beginning, middle, or end. It’s just free-hand writing.

I spent the entire afternoon in my bed, reading through my tumblr. I didn’t realize how overwhelming it would be to go back and look into the mirror of my past. Every now and then I’d have to stop and calm myself down because I couldn’t read through my tears. At one point, I wanted to stop reading. I’m not sure why I didn’t, despite the immense feeling of sadness that had washed over me. I suppose it’s because until I read my tumblr today, I had never realized just how angry and sad I was. My WRITING sounded like me, in terms of the way my sentences flowed or my choice of words, but the EMOTIONS behind them…It was looking into a mirror and seeing a different face staring back at you.

It’s amazing how time flies. What was I doing today, exactly one year ago? What were YOU doing? I probably couldn’t tell you, and neither could you. From my last post, which was dated some time in March 2012, to today, so much has happened that I don’t even know where to begin my story. There was so much heartache and heartbreak, sadness and pain. The events that transpired were both terrifying and shocking, not just for me but for those who know me, that I wonder how I managed to make it out alive. I think its because in those instances, there was also plenty of love, understanding, and compassion. Would I say that I’m 100% recovered? No, not really. I have episodes every 1-2 weeks and sometimes old diet/criticizing habits die hard. I still see my psychiatrist, although it’s only once every 1-2 months. I’m still on medication but I and my psychiatrist have agreed that I am well enough to cut down to just 2 different kinds of pills instead of the original 4 different kinds, each taken in different doses. As a statistic, you could say I’m quite nearly there. As a human being, I have enjoyed a kind of success that supercedes any sort of material gain or fame.

I am not the same person that I was a year ago, and who knows, maybe as I continue to write in this journal you’ll see a new, different soul behind my words. These days I have a gentler, kinder and more optimistic outlook towards myself and Life. Gone are the days when I’d keep my heart under lock and key in an attempt to keep it from feeling anything. I don’t inflict mental or emotional harm on others as a way to alleviate my own pain and suffering. I don’t stifle my sadness anymore with binges or drinking sprees; instead, I embrace the sadness and pain as a quintessential part of life that without which I would not be able to feel neither empathy nor compassion for the world and those in it. I’ve loved, I’ve lost, I’ve let go, but most importantly, I’ve learned.

Nice to know you're back. :) i don't know if you remember me, but i use to own a diet blog on tumblr, which later on turned me into a spiral of disordered eating patterns and a negative self image. I'd just like you to know that the message you sent me 3 years ago is still here, kept in my secret box, which i go back and read when i'm falling back to old habits. I'd like to say I have recovered, and i'm now even studying nutrition to help others. Thanks again, you saved me. :)

Thu, 11 Apr 2013 00:37:38 -0700

I remember you very well Miss Danni J. ;) After going through all my posts, I came across that letter, and I’ve saved a copy for myself as well. I was actually wondering what YOU were up to, and I’m glad to know your happy and doing well. I’ve missed writing terribly, and everybody else here. It’s wonderful to hear from you. Thank you. <3

She's only happy in the sun, and the moon, and everything in between.

Wed, 10 Apr 2013 21:32:34 -0700

If there is anything more humbling than the experiences we’ve gone through, it’s looking back on those experiences and seeing just how much we’ve grown; from the little sapling that was beaten and weathered by the wind and the storms, to a hardy and sturdy tree with its roots planted deep into the ground, and its branches reaching up, up, up towards the sun.

- S

Hello old friends, and welcome, new ones. I am S and I’m home with even more passion, compassion, fervor and love for writing and fighting the good fight.

Feeling a bit lost...

Thu, 08 Mar 2012 18:38:25 -0800

I haven’t been feeling well again these days. Another dip in my mood, another weighted, heavy feeling. I still haven’t gotten around to taking better care of myself and of my health. Surprise, surprise.

Gratitude #7

Sun, 04 Mar 2012 02:34:43 -0800

Here’s a little something to perk up your day, and mine too. I mentioned honey B in my previous entry and I thought I’d dedicated this gratitude post to her. She was the last girl I’d ever expect to be friends with, considering we have a common history. Let me tell you our favorite story, the story we tell people when they ask us how we became best friends. We always get a laugh out of it every time we tell it, and we never get tired of reminiscing that day:

Back in 7th grade, I was dating someone on and off for a few months. I was absolutely head over heels for this guy. Little did I know, he was dating her too. I’d never met her, or heard of her except through a social network site. She was pretty, with a rocking body and a sex appeal that shot out of the PC screen. He ended up going for her instead of me, and you can’t imagine how much that bothered me. She was the thorn that shattered my la vie en rose. Fast forward to college, and who do you think is the first person I meet? Her. I remember it like it was yesterday. It was the first day of school, so naturally you had to project a certain image to distinguish yourself from everyone else. I might also mention that at my school image and wealth was everything, from the accessories you wore to accentuate your uniform, to the gadgets you had. (I might mention that if the way I tell this story seems a bit snooty, I apologize, but I’m doing it so you get a better feel of the situation and how funny it actually is.) I was sitting in the lobby of our school, prim, poised and proper in my uniform - a crisp white button down, black pencil skirt, blazer, which I paired with classic Ferragamo heels. I was wearing my grandmother’s pearl necklaces, with my mother’s fine south sea pearls adorning my ears. I was peering at my schedule through my vintage Christian Dior shades, reviewing what my day would be like. Filipino in the morning, English in the afternoon, Maths in between, et cetera, et cetera. Yawn.

I was looking around at the sea of students coming in, wondering who I’d make friends with and who wouldn’t be worth my time, when lo and behold, B walked in. I remember my eyes flashed as I recognized her, after which I immediately started surveying her. You know how it is ladies, the catty, snooty head-to-toe. That girl…that bitch…that…AGH! What was SHE doing here?! She walked up to me, giving me the quick head-to-toe and in the snootiest voice you can imagine said, “Uhm, you’re Sarah, right?” The way she said my name, the way she emphasized it was so charged with disdain and condescension. I swear, I would’ve smacked her if I wasn’t brought up so well by my mother! I took a few seconds to take her appearance in.

Her face was well-made up and polished, and she was actually prettier in person. She had big eyes, a well-pointed nose that fit her heart-shaped face, full lips and long lashes. Her hair was naturally curly, the kind of curls that women envy and go to salons to have imitated. She had a nice figure that looked good in the school uniforms. Gucci shades, Louis bag, Marc Jacobs heels. Alright, alright. Not bad. That designer-whore of a bitch. (According to her, I looked like a class A bitch too, sitting on the couch with an erect posture and my legs crossed, looking at everyone and her from down the tip of my nose! Haha!) I slipped my sunglasses off my face, hooked them in button-down and just as snootily, with my eyebrow raised, I replied, “Bea?” The way I said her name was of aloofness and haughtiness. The whole you’re-not-worth-an-ounce-of-my-time-and-I’d-find-more-meaning-and-substance-in-a-used-piece-of-tissue vibe. She took a seat beside me on the couch, in which I made sure there’s a space between us and we didn’t say two words to each other. I checked my phone and before I realized it, I was almost late for class. I rushed off, leaving her to rot on the couch, haha. (At this point she’ll cut in and say that the whole time we were sitting there, and even after I left, she was thinking to herself, “Ugh. This girl has NOTHING on me. Ferragamo? Christian Dior? Puh-LEAZE.” Haha! Then she realizes we’re in the same class and she comes in late.) As snobby as that encounter was, I was raised to be polite and gracious so I put my best foot forward and told her she could sit next to me. Yes, you may be graced by my presence. Haha, kidding. I figured I didn’t know anyone and like I said, I had an image to project and I wanted it to be of a friendly nature. (Here she’ll say that she was so confused when I said she could sit down, and her bitch instincts told her to sit somewhere else. I mean, why the hell would she sit next to ME but she was thinking, “Fine, whatever! I don’t know anyone anyway”. She ended up sitting down. Haha!) We started talking about ourselves and getting to know each other, all the while making fun as we wondered how in the world we were going to survive a class that was purely in Filipino (because English is my first language, and she communicates mostly in English as well). We even ended up having lunch together, with a boy we met in class. Long story short, for the rest of the day we laughed and made fun the boy we both dated, wondering what the hell we were thinking when we went for him.

From being the last person I’d ever think of befriending, she became the one person I’d be devastated to lose. While we’ve had our fair share of ups and downs, and we’ve had a ROLLERCOASTER of a friendship (from not speaking for months to outcasting each other), we still accept each other completely and entirely. She’s the one person I can open up to and talk about anything, and she feels the same way about me. I don’t necessarily like the things she tells me, nor do I approve, but I’ll always be there to listen willingly and patiently. She feels the same. We’re open and honest about our opinions, without maiming or attacking each other, about the things I do or the things she does; at the end of the day she’s never judged me, even when I was the worst person, nor I, her. Trust me, we’ve done a lot of silly, stupid, reckless, crazy, and outlandish things in the past, and neither of us will hear a word from each other about what an awful, horrid human being we are. I can rely on her for anything and everything, and she can rely on me. If anything went down, nor matter how far we are from each other, we’d drop everything and get to each other in a blink of an eye. We have each other’s back in any situation, even if I’m wrong or she’s wrong. In a way, in all ways, she’s my sister, she’s family, and family will always have family’s back. There’s nothing we wouldn’t do for each other, and while I’m not a fan of violence and killing, we’d take a life for each other just as much as we’d take a bullet. I’m beyond thankful for having her as my best friend and sister, and so should everyone who has someone like her in their life. People like my honey B only come once, and it’ll take a lifetime to replace them.

Random

Fri, 02 Mar 2012 19:45:42 -0800

I’m really trying here not to shoot off on some drunken tirade about what a shit night and shit morning I’ve had and how shit shit shitty I’ve been feeling for the past few days. Oops, there I go. Let me just compose myself for a second…

OK. I’m OK now. Back to our regular programming. I’m not drunk really. However, I woke up this morning tipsy, but that’s subsided and now I’m hungover. I’m lightheaded, dehydrated, bloated, out of breath, weak-kneed and whatever else you can associate with the morning after a night of drinking and staying up late. I was out with honey B last night. I’ve probably mentioned her somewhere in my tumblr. She’s my best friend, my partner in crime. We’re Thelma and Louise or Bonnie and Clyde (minus the male addendum and romance, of course) Anyway, I brought a bottle of wine to her place; half of which we finished in her flat and the other half we finished while driving around the city going from place to place. B and I went to two places last night, but most of the fun we had was goofing in the car drinking wine out of the bottle. (Yeah, we’re classy like that. Urgh.) Remind me to thank God for drivers. Er, they’re both a blessing and a curse. You don’t have to worry about drinking and driving, but you do have to worry about letting yourself go and drinking too much because hey, you have a designated driver so yeeeah let’s get sloooshed right? Wrong.

Anyway as you can see I’m not in the right state of mind to type out some melodious and lyrical post that’s easy on the eyes; you know, my usual inspirational recovery posts and whatnot. However, we’ll see how this post progresses but for the time being, I’m free-hand typing. I’m not feeling too good. My mood has dipped significantly over the past few days, even if I’m taking my medication everyday. I feel the change in me. I feel weighed down. Pardon the pun. Why? For a number of reasons. Well I’ve gained weight. 5 pounds to be exact. Trigger. I haven’t really been taking care of myself these days. I haven’t been going to the gym like I used to, for lack of time, opportunity or energy. I’ve been going out too often, drinking too much, smoking more. I don’t get enough sleep either because I go out late at night and come home early morning. I don’t even eat regularly anymore. Sometimes I go the entire day without eating, surviving on water, caffeinated beverages and cigarettes, and then eat at dinner. Trigger. I suppose by now you’ve gathered that this makes for a messy cocktail (Really, urgetopurge, more puns? Really?) Not going to the gym puts me on edge. Trigger. Going out late at night and drinking makes me peckish in the wee hours of the morning, and I’ve developed this sort of need to binge and purge when I get home. Sometimes I manage to purge, oftentimes I pass out from exhaustion. That doesn’t do well, does it? That happened last night actually. Got home, binged, passed out from exhaustion, woke up bloated, had an episode. Trigger, trigger, trigger. Funny word, by the way. Trigger. Sorry, not making sense. It’s all triggering my old habits of needing to starve myself. Hence the not eating and surviving on water, caffeine and cigarettes. Buuut we all know that doesn’t work.

God this post isn’t working out for me. I’m all a mess right now. I’m going to pop out for a bit, but I’ll be back (hopefully with something more insightful for you all). I’m meeting S in GH. He says we’re going to talk. Sounds serious, I know. Catch you later, lovelies. I hope your days are filled with love, laughter and happiness.

happinessiseverywhere:

Fri, 02 Mar 2012 00:05:33 -0800

happinessiseverywhere:

Word.

Thu, 01 Mar 2012 23:51:56 -0800

Word.

"Being triggered does not mean “being upset” or “being offended” or “being angry,” or any other..."

Thu, 01 Mar 2012 23:45:40 -0800

“Being triggered does not mean “being upset” or “being offended” or “being angry,” or any other euphemism people who roll their eyes long-sufferingly in the direction of trigger warnings tend to imagine it to mean. Being triggered has a very specific meaning that relates to evoking a physical and/or emotional response to a survived trauma. To say, “I was triggered” is not to say, “I got my delicate fee-fees hurt.” It is to say, “I had a significantly mood-altering experience of anxiety.” Someone who is triggered may experience anything from a brief moment of dizziness, to a shortness of breath and a racing pulse, to a full-blown panic attack. A survivor of sexual violence who experiences a trigger is experiencing the same thing as a soldier who experiences a trigger, potentially even including flashbacks. Like many soldiers who return from war, many survivors of sexual violence are left with post-traumatic stress disorder. Unlike soldiers, however, they are not likely to receive much sympathy, or benefit from attempts to understand, when they are triggered. Instead, triggered survivors of sexual violence are dismissed as oversensitive, as hysterics, as humorless, as weak. Well. Trivializing the concerns of a person whose traumatic experience of sexual violence has been triggered is a legitimate response. But it’s not a very kind or decent one. I will never understand why anyone wants to be the total jerk who evokes someone’s memories of being assaulted by blindsiding hir with a rape joke (or image, or metaphor, or whatever), in the guise of “humor.” No “joke” is worth triggering someone. Not if you understand what triggering someone really means.”

- “Survivors Are So Sensitive” (via barafundle, superherotoranse) (via man-over-matter)

I think this goes for people with EDs too.