2 hours, 41 minutes, and counting.

Today I emailed my father and I let him in on some things. 

What I told him: 

• In the fall, I was intentionally starving myself due to a cliched wish to have control over my life.
• This afternoon at 3pm I am going to a Counseling center which specializes in Domestic Abuse, Rape, and Eating Disorders.
• Over the Fall the college’s Counseling Center wanted to have me committed to the local psych ward.
• I’m bi-polar, and far more like my mother than we ever suspected.

What I didn’t tell him:

• I’m completely over my eating disorder, and that isn’t the sector of the Domestic Abuse, Rape, and Eating Disorder counseling which I fall under.
• That I am, in many ways, worse than Mom ever was.
• That I am not even sure that I want to get better, because I don’t see the point.
• That I didn’t tell him about my problems, not because I didn’t want to worry him, but because I was sure he would brush it off as he downed another pint of Guinness.
• That I feel like an orphan.

Last night the Mister told me that I seem like I’m always on the verge of doing something drastic–not necessarily bad–just drastic.  He said that everyone can see it.  That everyone knows.  I suppose he’s right.

I am constantly on the verge of insanity, of irresponsibility, and of immorality.  But I don’t know that I even want to fight that anymore.  I kind of just want to give in.  I won’t, because I’m a chronic people-pleaser and care-giver.  Instead I’ll go see a therapist, I’ll take care of my insanity, and I’ll continue to repress my insanity.  I’ll trust that if I was saner, I would want to be sane.

2 hours and 41 minutes until I see a therapist. 

Thanks for reading,
Behind My Books

 

You Can’t “Be Okay” Until You Take Action. So I’m Taking Action.

I didn’t sleep last night at all, and I feel like I’m going to throw up.

I’ve been doing so well.  I’ve been eating healthy, sleeping eight hours a night, making sure I take care of myself—and letting the Mister take care of himself.  I’ve stopped wallowing in self-pity, avoided self-destructive whims, and I’ve even managed to keep my bipolar fairly balanced.

I was proud of myself.

Then one conversation with a professor blows ALL of that.  Alright let’s be honest, Dr. Keating isn’t just a professor.  She’s my freaking idol.  She is absolutely everything I would love to be twenty years from now.  I want her to approve of the things I do, the thoughts I think.  I want to feel like I’m a person she could respect.

So she isn’t just a professor.

But it was just one conversation, a conversation I opened myself up to when I first gave her the link for this blog.  I guess that when she didn’t get the chance to read before I went private I assumed she wouldn’t find out.  I was glad, relieved.  But then I wrote a piece for a Zine her class made.

It wasn’t about that, it was about my self-image issues actually, and the way women of my shape are portrayed in the world.  Yet while writing about my starvation in the fall, I had to admit to the things which had triggered my disorder.  That included the rape.

It was a simple sentence written in the first person from September.  “My world was crumbling around me; three weeks ago we discovered my fiancé may have a brain tumor, two weeks ago I was raped, and one week ago—one week ago I found out I may not be graduating from college after all.”

That is all I said, but it was enough apparently.  When she complimented my baking skills, and asked to visit when I came to pick up my pan, it didn’t occur to me that she would have had the chance to read that yet.  Grades are due in a week, there was no way she would have time.   I had also dumbly hoped that whenever she did read it, she wouldn’t ask me about it.  I never expected that from just that sentence she would unravel it all.

I should have expected it.  She’s brilliant, that’s one of the many reasons I respect her.  She listens and pays attention.  She pieced together every essay I had written, every story I had told her, and every extra hour that I spent on campus.  She suddenly understood, and she wasn’t afraid to ask. “It wasn’t the Mister, was it?”

My response was so quiet and dreadfully simple, “That is the wrong question Dr. Keating… the wrong question.”

I suppose the opposite was actually true, because all of a sudden I was pouring out everything I hadn’t said, while simultaneously assuring her that I am safe now, and I really do know what I’m doing.  It felt good to be honest, to completely admit everything.

But I wanted her to be mad.  I wanted her to tell me to get the fuck out of her office.  I wanted her to tell me that I was a weak embarrassment to all women, and that she was obviously wrong about me from the start.  I wanted her to be disappointed.

Instead, she told me I was strong.  She told me I was courageous, and that she understood.  And, after confirming that I am and will be safe, she WORRIED about the Mister, just like me.  She asked about his brain scans, about what steps he was taking.  She asked if he would be alright in Graduate school at a time like this.    And after all that, as I left her office she congratulated us on our wedding.  She genuinely congratulated us.

After giving me a list of phone numbers to call, a hug, and making me promise to keep in touch, I left her office feeling better than I had in months.  Everything would be alright, I had everything under control.

At least I thought I did until I realized that I had just sat in a tiny room, admitting my greatest defeat to my greatest inspiration.  When I realized that, and realized exactly what I had been talking about—well then every thought I had managed to quiet in the last months, every churning fear came bubbling to the surface, leaving me in the bathroom retching in the middle of the night.

I didn’t sleep, I couldn’t breath.  My mind was on repeat, it just kept saying, this is happening.  I was raped, and I’m marrying him.  I was raped, and I love him.  I was raped, and it wasn’t my fault, but it wasn’t his either.  I was raped, and it’s getting better, but it isn’t going away.  It isn’t going to go away.

I was raped, I stayed, and everyone knows.

At approximately 6:00 in the morning I made a decision.  I can’t keep living like this.  I can’t keep waking up in the middle of the night having complete panic attacks.  I can’t keep forming unhealthy attachments to people, places, and object, simply because I feel like I need saving.  I can’t keep wanting to break windows, punch walls, and burn the world.

I’m fucking exhausted, and I need to find a new method.  So I called one of those numbers Dr. Keating gave me.  I have an appointment with a therapist tomorrow at 3.  We’ll see how this goes?

Thanks for reading, and for the unending support.

Behind my Books

Ps:  I know that I went through a bit of this yesterday, but my mindset has changed, and I needed to write it all out.  I needed to let the details flow.  Sorry for the repeats, but I write for me most of all, and I needed this.

 

The Secret’s Out–but I think I’m gonna be okay.

She knows.

The woman I respect more than anyone else in my life, Dr. Keating, knows about what happened with the Mister.  She knows about September.

I didn’t mean for her to find out.  I had changed my mind, hidden it from her, but she still figured it out.  She is brilliant, and I should have known she would connect the dots.  And when she asked me the question, when she asked “Was it the Mister?” I couldn’t lie to her.  I could never lie to her.

So now she knows, and I can’t decide whether or not this is a good thing.  And I can’t decide if I appreciate that she understands, or if I would have rather she was disappointed in me.  A large part of me wishes that she would have hated me, shunned me, and told me I was a disappointment to all females… I suppose that isn’t the healthiest frame of mind.

Still, in the end, she supported my decision.  She congratulated me on the upcoming wedding, and I could tell she meant it.  Apparently she really does believe in me.

Currently my house is full of people, which is wonderful…but not exactly what I need right now.  I need to have ten minutes alone to scream endlessly, punch a hole in the wall, and sob like a small child; but as that isn’t an option, I’m going to finish writing this.

Then I am going to smile like nothing has ever been wrong, play some games, make some dinner, and keep being okay.

I’m starting to think I really will be okay, and that’s kind of a big deal for me.
Here’s hoping.

Thanks for reading,
Behind My Books

 

A Wonderful 3-day Reminder

There are very few things I love as much as missing someone.  Not for long spans of time, I hate that (hence my trepidation about this upcoming move…), but simply having the opportunity to remember why it’s so magical to see that person on a daily basis.  I love that.

The Mister spent the last three days and two nights in Michigan.  I was supposed to go with him, but due to some extreme foolishness on his part, I ended up having to stay home with our dog.  Despite the reasons behind his trip, it was a good experience for him; it forced him to figure things out for himself, and forced me to let him.

It also gave me three days of “me” time.  I wrote pages of stories and adventures, folded laundry, spent a wonderful hour laughing with Dr. Keating after class, had coffee with a friend, and spent hours chatting and laughing with Pepper and Fozzie simultaneously.  I also paid some bills, and did some wedding planning like a responsible woman.

But the best part?  I missed my Mister.  I missed his overheated presence sleeping next to me, I missed his terrible jokes, and I missed his ability to take the dog out before bed, when I really don’t want to have to put on shoes.  I also missed his smile.  When he walked into our house last night it was him, completely.  The illness was nowhere to be seen in either of us, and we were able to spend an evening laughing and watching the most terrible of all Batman movies (Batman Returns…).

Then we… *cough* fell right asleep *cough*, and this morning woke up smiling again.  I don’t fully know what’s happening, but I know that he is in the shower, and that we’re going to have a picnic today with Puck.  I just hope things stay this way for just a little bit longer, times like this are a wonderful reminder of why it’s all worth it, every terrible thing is balanced—and beat out, by a single moment like this.

Today is a good day, and I’m so thankful for it.

Thanks for reading, and thanks for the continued support.  Just keep swimming, right?

Behind My Books

Ps:  An enormous thanks to Rafaela, from the blog “Dear Ed” for her nomination of me for the “Beautiful Blogger Award!”  Such thoughts are always appreciated!

 

Holding Out For a Hero

Harry Potter lived through eleven years of abuse and torment—then he found magic, and it saved him.  Through magic, and love, he was eventually freed from his abusers and his past.

Carrie White lived through seventeen years of hell, before magic found her.  It allowed her to seek vengeance and take control of her life, however detrimental it was to her in the end.

The Velveteen Rabbit, after years of patience, became a real rabbit.  Horton the Elephant found friendship and faith.  Even Ebenezer Scrooge found his heart with the help of some spirits.

So I wait.  I didn’t realize until recently how desperately I’ve been waiting, been searching.

I’ve always loved books, and literature.  I’ve always looked to them for guidance and camaraderie.  But until recently I didn’t realize I was looking to them as prophesies.  I didn’t realize that I’ve been fighting desperately to survive, simply assuming that someday I would find reprieve.

I didn’t know what it would look like.  A miracle, magic, or a sage character in my life?  Perhaps divine intervention, or a materialistic boon?  I’ve looked towards every person in my life as the possible answer, every job, every assignment.  That answer used to come in the form of unconditional love, or so I thought.  If I could find true love then I could survive anything.

A child’s dream.  In reality, love isn’t always so simple—in reality love can cause as many problems as it solves.  I also hoped that education could free me.  I hoped to become enlightened and find that sage character to give me guidance.  I hoped to free myself from my life through knowledge.

But I’m not Hermione Granger opening up the pages of magical books.  I’m just plain old me, reading the same thoughts I’ve always known and understood.  I’m not creating magic or opening doors, I’m just reading.

I hoped that medication could be the answer, or friendship, or relocation.  In reality, I’m still praying for a reprieve, but a reprieve isn’t coming.

There is no hero to my story, no climactic event to patiently await.  Because my books are fiction, they aren’t based in truth—but in desire, and my desires aren’t strong enough to move the world; all I can really do is keep fighting for survival.

Perhaps books aren’t as beneficial as I’ve thought; perhaps I need to find realistic tools instead of drowning myself in impossible dreams.  I suppose this sounds depressing, and it really is a bit, but it’s also refreshing in a sense.  It’s refreshing to stop wishing, and waiting, and praying, and to instead start grabbing onto the tangible world around me.

If this life is as good as it gets, then I need to learn to survive instead of floundering in my own despair.

Thanks for Reading,
Behind My Books

 

Earling Evening Rant

There are very few things I do for me, and that is something I am entirely alright with.  I like to help other people, I like to accomplish things which will help me and my family, and I like to make a difference.  But I also like having a few of my own things, those things are as follows:

Reading and Writing Harry Potter Fanfiction—entirely embarrassing, and useless, but I enjoy it and it allows me relief from my daily stresses.

Watching the television program Glee—more or less the same as the fanfiction, it gives me a release and allows me to remember other points in my life fondly.

Singing—No matter what I’m singing or when I’m singing it, this is for me.  It calms me, it releases pent up aggression, and it feels magical.

These three things take up a very small portion of my life.  I sing in the car, and when I’m cooking or cleaning.  That’s it.  I watch Glee when I’m chopping up vegetables for dinner, paying bills, and responding to emails.  And I read fanfiction when I am taking baths—something I do approximately once a week due to severe back pain.

The fourth, and last, activity that I do for myself, and only myself, is attending Dr. Keating’s class.  Every Tuesday and Thursday, from approximately 1:30 pm until, at the latest, 6:30 pm, I focus on her class.  It allows my mind to stay fresh, stay challenged.  It also provides me some comfort to be in a classroom and around a supremely awesome professor.

While I’m ridiculed for the fanfiction, and the Glee, I understand that and I don’t mind.  But this class is different.

This class is my safety.  It is something intelligent, something the Mister doesn’t and cannot understand.  It is something that I can’t discuss with my friends because they “don’t get it”.  It allows me to fully stretch my intellectual mind, to escape from the mundane existence of a Substitute Teacher/Wedding Planner/Fiance Therapist/Maid/Chef.  It belongs to me and me alone.

And most of my friends make fun.

They say I’m in love with Dr. Keating.  They say I’m celebrity obsessed.  They say that I should “ask her for her autograph!”  They make fun of me, and her, and the one place on the planet I feel entirely safe.  And it sucks.

People that I love, people who are supposed to support me.  Yet they can’t understand why I come home rambling excitedly about Feminist theory, and conversations with Dr. Keating.  They don’t understand the excitement I feel at having finally found a professor who is intelligent, who I’m learning from, who doesn’t treat me like an absolute ignoramus.

They don’t get it because they are so fucking smart.  They’ve spent every moment of their college existence being praised for their intelligence, being told how well they will do in the world, and so far everyone was right.  They don’t get it because they didn’t pay for a cent of their education, and they didn’t learn much.

They don’t understand because when I talk about gender, feminism, sexuality, heteronormativity, and the connecting between feminism and the destruction of the environment—they don’t have a god damned clue what I’m saying.  That can’t understand the connections, or the arguments.  They declare them stupid.

You know what’s stupid?  I’ll tell you what’s stupid.

Not being able to understand the points of views that others hold is stupid.  Refusing to acknowledge the modern world because you so desperately wish to live in an older one is stupid.  Refusing to be polite to people you don’t like, and burning bridges in the process is stupid.  Being incapable of having a discussion with someone who is of a different opinion then you is stupid.  Using words like slut and whore, without understanding the psychology which often goes behind that point of view is stupid.  Only reading one or two genres of literature, yet making judgments about the rest is stupid.  Never leaving your hometown is stupid.  Refusing to visit friends who move more than 15 minutes away is stupid.

Those things are stupid.

Literature, education, and wanting to further your own mind?  That is not stupid.

Thanks for reading,
Behind My Books

 

Help!

Have you ever felt as if you are standing in the middle of a crowded room, screaming yourself into oblivion, and yet no one seems to hear a thing? 

That is my current state of mind.

The Mister is doing better, I have a job, we have a future plan, I’m excited for our wedding again, my friends are in touch, I’m loving Dr. Keating’s class, and yet…  here I am, screaming myself sore.

I keep trying to write things for this.  I’ve tried fiction, rants, happy ramblings, even a few letters…but I can’t finish anything.  Not unless it is simple ramblings like this.  I’m constantly censoring myself, contradicting myself, and terrifying myself with the things I’m thinking.

I’m so full of secrets, and I feel as if I’m about to implode.  I’ve kept actions in check so far, if not my thoughts, so I’m alright for now.

Just another day of fighting. 
Thanks for reading, I really am hoping to up the quality on here again soon.  Really.
Behind My Books