LifeULista

Serial Dieter, Overeater, Anorexic, Bulimic -- All of Us

[lifeulista]

Not What We Were. As told by Adriana

The hardest part of my living is also the simplest – telling yourself the truth.

I knew that the danger against survival, my own, did not lie outside my door, it was within. It wasn't the usual alarms of loss that surround us; fire, flood or disaster. It was me.  

I had spent so much time running towards death; wishing for, hoping for, that I forgot how to actually live. I think once you cross that line of caring, of giving, of responsibility; it actually seems easy to let go.

You live between two worlds; one in which you inhabit and the other in which you are forever 17. 

I talk myself into believing that I have no chance. In my mind, these endless conversations of woe, of slights and false forgiveness. To the outsider, if heard, I would sound bitter, worn, old.

Funny how I can rationalize the distinctness of these two voices. The factual me, and the other, in which I live in most of the time; the emotional, needy me.

In describing, do I sound crazy? Detached? I can only compare it to the intuition of right versus wrong. You feel each, know each, and always do one or the other.

After a while, the feeling becomes a part of your character. 

But even though knowing and believing what truly is real and not, I can't seem to stop believing the only choice, chance really is that I have neither.

I fear pain. Not for others, i know how selfish that sounds, but for me. Do you feel it, experience it when your life ceases?

For whatever reason today I just felt I had to stop fibbing. I had to start being honest and take a good look at the person I am.

Maybe I still have that long life ahead. Maybe I have that opportunity, ability and future that I hear day in and day out at school and from those around me.

Maybe instead of living in passing I can instead live now. Here. Today. I just need to say that I am afraid. I am not perfect. I want to care.

Understand me. I do you.

[lifeulista]

Afraid and Dark. As told by Cordian.

I am coming off a strange summer. A bit down, but always looking up. Forward. My sister Clare left for university three weeks ago and already she seems a world away.

No longer do my parents tell me endless Clare this and Clare that stories. Its hard to compete with the memory of perfection. My A's were never good enough, Clare's were better, more earned. Deserved.

I would sulk, brood about my imperfect life, but try finding sympathy with anyone 16. You can't. You won't.

Its the prison of freedom with the chains of family, of need, of yearning holding you back. Pulling you.

I have spent the last twelve years waiting for this year, a senior to happen. I had it all planned. Every detail. Contingency plans of friends, of gatherings, parties. Events.

It all seemed so together on paper and in my mind. When faced with the reality, tomorrow, the first day of class; all my best made plans seem less than best made.

I no longer have Clare to blame for my awkwardness, unpopularity or not. I can't accuse her of stealing my thunder, making me feel less than or taking up time that Mom could devote to me but doesn't because Clare needs her, now!

I had likely lived my entire life until today in the landscape of memories real and imagined and hid behind the ever building wall of regret. What now?

I know I am not supposed to care and I am supposed to seem so cool and ready for life that seems far and wide. I just seemingly can't feel the strength I had just a few months ago.

In all honesty, it was more comfortable hiding behind the visage of blame on Clare. It was easier to be a fault, than responsibility. I think in some ways, when I have spent all this time living a definition of something else walking into a life of alternative meaning seems foreign.

Afraid and dark. I miss Clare but I suppose for all the wrong reasons. 

[lifeulista]

To go back. As told by Finn.

My friend, Jasper, died a week ago. I have known him my whole life. 17 years. We are neighbors, his house next to mine, but in reality there was no direct separation.

We are one for one, one for all. It is funny though, maybe not, that how death doesn't seem real. You wake up, frightened, scared wondering, is this happening? Maybe they have it all wrong. Made a mistake.

I look at my phone and expect a ping or a call at any second. We went through girlfriends, arguments with the parents and experiences with our friends that could and would last a lifetime. I can't and I won't speak in the tense of remember when....

It isn't that I am a stranger to death. My Grandparents died when I was 8, and two years ago my dog Maxwell was killed when the UPS driver ran him over. But those experiences seemed past in present, almost detached.

If I could just do one thing, right here, right now, I would go back and tell Jasper one more time, hey you are way cool. You are my friend. Hey, lets go and just hang. One more time. That is all I could ask. But isn't that what everyone wants when going back doesn't bring that person here?

[lifeulista]

The Eyes of Forgiveness. As told by Kendra. Part 2 of 2.

The truth. The encompassment of the knowing. I wanted to know what happened. I didn't want the summary, I wanted the story.

The beginning. The Middle and the end.

It is the end that most bothered me. I had always imagined what my Mother was like. I refused to let the trajectory of my Dad's anger, pity and disgust overtake my perception of what I wanted her to be and what was.

Even though I am now 24, I refused to buy into the dark side of the story. I instead created a path and a past as if writing a children's storybook. Its those happy endings we want. Hope for. Dream about.

That upstairs vision in your mind. 

What I did not know is that Mom had what we call know days  call "issues." Those included a plethora of drinks, pills and powders to inebriate her mind and body.

Because she didn't feel the fortitude to stop while pregnant with me, I too had the opportunity to share in her appetite for destruction.

Its part of the truth knowing. 

I did not ask my Father for the story. I asked her Mom. My Grandmother.

I think it is true, no matter how bad, how terrible, how awful a child is or can be to their Mom or to themselves, a Mom will always see the clarity of clearness in the life and lives of her child.

Mom's have an ability to tell the truth, but in so doing, giving that truth an unbiased chance of forgiveness. 

She told me other things, that Mom was kind. Beautiful even. Generous of her time. Ability. She loved my Dad. Grandma explained that my Father tried. Went back. Left. Came back. Made ultimatums. Broke them. Overlooked the obvious and lived for a while in a marriage and a home that cracked and fractured with each passing day.

She left 7 months after I was born. No one in my family knows where she is. Alive or not. Grandma just looked away when she shared. Looked outside wondering.

Asking no one, but hoping someone would answer.

It was two weeks ago that the truth came home. I didn't share what I knew with my Dad. But I held a little less judgment. A little less anger I only days before had felt to him.

How do you reach out to a man who has lived in the shadows such as he has? I saw his pride instead of anger. I saw his what ifs, hopes, wants, could have beens, should haves, maybes stare right at me. 

I know too that I am not my Mom. Just as much I am not my Father. I keep thinking and knowing that I will not turn in to the things that she became. I won't let my failings become a crutch that define me.

I feel no embarrassment about my Mother. I won't lie, there is sadness and a hole in my heart and mind that won't ever go away.

I still, likely like my Dad, wish life and that truth were different. What I no longer do, and it feels odd to not, is create that vision of what I thought my Mom could or would be.

I know her through the words and memories of others. Like those words shared and memories given life,  I look at the truth through the eyes of forgiveness. 

[lifeulista]

The eyes of forgiveness. As told by Kendra. 1 of 2.

I believed the words before the actions. They seem to hit harder than an actual punch. I believed the actions as deserved, the words lingered longer, stayed even as if an unwanted visitor.

My father I rationalized didn't mean to strike. He just did. He was angry, most often in traffic or at his boss, or sometimes just because I think he was angry to be angry.

It was impossible to reason, understand the why, the how or reason. In my mind I always figured it was because of his past, background. I only knew tid bits. Not the full story.

I think I was a late accident to the union my parents called a marriage. Soon after I was born Mom left, without me. I always thought she couldn't fit me in her suitcase.

Since I never actually saw her leave I can only assume she used a suitcase. I wanted to ask her why she didn't remember to take me too. Was it too much? Too Hard?

Anytime I mentioned Mom around Dad he just said words that were unkind and brought up some long ago mis-deed on her part. She never liked cleaning up after herself! She always forgot to bring the laundry out to fold.

In hindsight most, if not all the transgressions, and I am using the approximate description most suited that didn't involved the various swear words that more often than not went along with his tirade, involved chores and duties, not emotional mistakes or deeds.

I think though, as I get older, the transgressions mentioned, that seemed to once matter didn't. The reasons given weren't.

I decided though, if one thing and one thing only, I wanted to know the truth. 

[lifeulista]

A Happy Ending.

Today a friend told me that they still believe in Happy Endings. Not only do they believe in them, but they believe that happy endings have power. I think tomorrow I will start my day with that, and that alone. 

[lifeulista]

The Way Back to Real.

I sat with my friends tonight eating pizza and guzzling regular soda, laughing when I should laugh and holding back when I felt the urge to blurt out whats really going on.

You read about people who live their whole lives living a lie, or stories where a Dad has two wives and children and a whole life in the next town. I don't live in a town and haven't since I was three, but I still say town even though I live in  a city.

"I am going to town" I might say and my friends just kind of look at me with awe. "Oh it her being her" is their short moment of understanding through justification. 

So I am what you would call bulimic, but I just say I throw up everything I eat, or try to. Lately my gag reflex is so worn I have to use my toothbrush just to get something to come back up.

I know, disgusting.

Weirdly, oddly even, I seem to be someone else when I do that. Every failure, fault, mistake, screw up, Grade C and below is suddenly removed from my presence when I inhale cookies, chips and even as I did earlier, pizza.

It didn't take me long until I was able to remove that horrid food presence from my body. 

I just sat there tonight thinking why can't I be normal? Everyone else here is so put together and here I am being, well me. Even though I am 15, I feel like I am 40 and thats old.

So even if I told, shared or much less tried to explain, I know they won't understand. Besides, my friends act real, but more likely than not, they aren't.

Each of us are someone else once the front door closes. For some reason, my life, my world revolves around my next bite. 

[lifeulista]

What You want to Be. As told by Sky.

Its funny, maybe not; how one day everything you want to be your not and everything you don't want to be you are.

Fat instead of skinny. Ugly instead of pretty. Lonely instead of popular. Desperate instead of content.

The realization of the opposite.

The thunder of what is. You get up each day; thinking, wanting, trying for that difference of a chance.

You end it hoping that maybe tomorrow is the time for a real... start. 

Why is it that we call Senior year the best year of our lives? Strip away the veneer of HIgh School and they are all the same.

Desks. Computers. Lockers. Football. Cheer. The library. But then we add all of us.

The haves. The have nots. The ones trying and the ones lost. The leaders. The followers. The nomads walking the year alone.

Strange thing is I admire them the most. Strength in numbers, except theirs is singular. 

I know we aren't supposed to care about what others think, but I do. My Mom tells me everyone feels the need to be wanted, liked; that I shouldn't worry about what others think.

I want to tell her how easy that is for her to say when you have already lived. 

I don't know. Maybe I think to much. Maybe I want to know too much, see everything and already have the ending instead of living through the beginning.

I want to be a lot of things; I just haven't figured out how to get where they are. 

Maybe tomorrow I will know about that start. 

[lifeulista]

The dream of Love. As told by Desi C.

I dreamt my whole life what I imagined love to be. I knew all the cliches.

Love is perfect. Love is blind. Love is forgiving. Love endures.

I think each of those are true in parts and pieces. The movies make love romantic. There always seems to be a crowd; friends involved making two people see through their own selfish doings and in the end, with cued music playing, the couple meets and their life starts, forever.

I believed it all, wanting and knowing I too could be so lucky, in real life. 

I met Brian in my last year of High School. That was four years ago now. By luck, by chance, we became together. First as friends, then as more.

For a while it seemed we didn't know how to define what we were. Friends who were extra close? Girlfriend and boyfriend? Lovers? Pretend Marrieds?

I think fear drove us away from a definition. I didn't mind. I knew what we were. I knew what was there. I didn't need a title. 

I accepted Brian for what he was. Moody, distant. Yet in an instant he could be kind, funny and modest.

He cheered me on when I felt like a failure. He gave me courage, and encouraged me when I felt I had none. What I didn't see, realize, that throughout our time together, we molded as one instead of keeping as two.

I never questioned what he wanted, rather it be dinner or how we would spend the weekend. I lived my life through his. Isn't that what we do?

Eventually we, this unit, finished high school and went out to college. Of course it wasn't all perfect. What truly is?

I picked my battles, overlooked the small things. Focus on the greater good was my thought and silent motto. I am not sure, maybe it was half in during our time together I knew in my mind that I didn't love him the way a lifetime of love should feel and be.

Maybe it was the routine. Maybe it was the fact I felt fear in that if I took a stand he would leave. Regardless of what he said, of what he did, I didn't trust the love we shared.

There was just this part, this side of him that I could not reach. It was on the other side, and that side was his and his alone. 

A week ago I left. I am not sure how or why it changed, but I felt that it was now or never. My ideal of love hadn't changed.

But to love someone you have to love yourself first so that they can return the same to you. I have spent so many years trying to find myself through someone else that I forgot who I was. I didn't want to accept second. I didn't want fear to be my guide.

I wanted my heart, my mind to see me through, not blocked by the needs and wants of another who doesn't love me back.

I know too that love should be simple. And the feeling should be like the dream I have always had of what it means. 

[lifeulista]

I am Hungry. By Kessy R.

I was hungry. That is how it started. I have been "good" for two weeks now. Proper eating. Healthy food groups. Still in compartments; vegetables and fruits, "allowed" carbs such a rice and small bits of bread. Rare occasions for that.

I went over my "so far today" intake. Breakfast was a banana and coffee. Lunch was a small apple and peanut butter. I felt hungry, anxious.

After lunch I had to go to class, trying to finish up a few credits so I can graduate in December. After class Sara and Dawn asked if I wanted to join them for a bite to eat. I momentarily declined but then decided that I "could" eat just a little.

Until now, I have hidden my diet regime from everyone. We went to eat and I ordered. But soon the overwhelming feeling of loss, life, love, friends, family consumed my rationale. I wanted more food than just the salad I ordered. I wanted to feel full beyond full.

As if in a silent far away place, Sara startled me by commenting that I must have been hungry to order so much food. My mind racing trying to figure out where I could purge the food that was within me.

I have been good for two weeks, what really is one, small slip? It happens. People "fall off the wagon" all the time. Besides, I can stop anytime I want to. Decided, complete with my decision, I finished everything.

I felt joy, pride and love. It was a rush beyond anything I had felt in a while, and to refute denial made me feel whole. I am not needy. I am not lonely. I am nothing that others may think.

I am everything that I can and want to be, for a moment.

Knowing that the clock was against me, I told Sara and Dawn that I had to get going. I feigned some excuse, what I do not recall and left. My short moment of joy soon gave way to panic. I had to find a bathroom. I had to find somewhere private, somewhere alone.

I had to rid myself of what was within. If I did not, my entire life would collapse. I would fall apart. I would be a failure.

All I needed was five minutes.

Finding a bathroom, not far from where we ate, I locked the door behind me. Calm I became, determined more than ever.

A tidal wave of regret came over me as I rid myself of what I had in my stomach. All that fear. All that silence. All that feeling of not good enough washed away.

I had to do this just to maintain who I am. This is normal. It has to be normal. Just as soon as it started  it was over. I was done. Finished.

My breathing slowed. My heart thumped less intently. Calm again. 

I can forget all the things that I have done until now. I can become someone else only if I try harder. I won't tell my secret.

Understanding is scant and fades.

I return to the person I was shortly before. I count. I portion. I weigh. I remember. I am hungry. 

[lifeulista]

My Friends in the Window. As told by H.T.

The store window said "Anniversary Sale" my mind told me, "more friends to be made." I have lived a life of consumption; of things, possessions, items that create an image I wish and want to project.

I walk about the store surrounded by shirts, skirts, pants, shoes and bags. It isn't that I am in need of these items. I have enough to open a store of my own. But it is a want of stuff that draws me in.

I can recite the exact place and time when I purchased something that I have on. Thats how clear, distinct and close my memories are to the possessions that I have hold. My heritage initials are HT, but in reality I find more identity, more believability in those initials that you see on bags, shirts and shoes.

When I see a "look book" of the clothing season ahead; with models appearing so carefree and happy exhibiting the wares within, I suddenly find myself transported. I see myself living their life, enjoying the walk in the forest with a bag draped on my shoulder and shoes so elegantly made.

I forget the life I truly live; that of a student in a high school I do not like surrounded my people who do not understand or relate to me. 

When I am in class I am not noticed. But when I am in a store, I am fawned upon. As silly as it sounds, I believed the genuine welcome I would receive when in reality it was my wallet that was given attention. I was merely an ornament to the situation.

My parents would sooner give me possessions than their own time and eventually, I believed having and accumulating clothing and shoes made me loved, accepted.

If I had a bad day, or if a friend was cruel and unkind, a shirt would and could make it better. Before I knew it, I had more shirts, more bags, more shoes than I knew what to do with. Regardless it neither made me happy, nor did it make me feel any more accepted.

That longing of love; no matter if from your family, a boyfriend or even a friend can not be made or had through something purchased. I wish I had known then. 

The obsession of consumption is a race against no one except one's ability to spend and obtain. My friends at the store enticed me with a House Credit Account. See, they like me! On my first purchase, they gave me 20% off! See, they want me!

No knowing, not realizing and maybe not caring, I spent more than I could afford and eventually my card was at the max. It was humiliating how I was told, but my friendly clerk who had been so kind sweetly, but in tone laced with ice said, "I am sorry but your card has been declined.

How could this be? You know me! I am a friend here! I spend my time in this place! Don't you want me anymore?

Dejected, but knowing. Understanding, without wanting, I knew. All this consumption, without need was swallowing me.

I had a secret, a damaging secret, but not sure how to make it end and go away. I couldn't tell my Mom and Dad. I could not tell anyone. I had no idea of where, when or what.

I wasn't a friend to these clerks, or to this store, or much less to the brands that I so sought. I was nothing except a number, another digit. A sucker who believed in the pictures of what they want to portray.

I felt fooled, not only by them but by my own self reasoning. I rationalized this, I explained this want as a need.

But no matter; right here, right now, I am nothing more than my House Account number of 6374 23849. 

[lifeulista]

The definition of alone. As told by Kendall.

I left home yesterday. 16 years of arguments. Fights. Makeups. Disagreements. Sadness.

A lifetime feeling of imperfection. False starts. No starts. I tried, sometimes. I realized when I heard the click of the door I had spent ten years hating my Mother, but 16 loving her. How though, could I love and hate at the same time?

She said I was worthless. I told her I wish she had aborted me. I felt embarrassed because of what she was, how she talked. I wanted her to be different, like the other Mom's of my friends.

Pretty. Talkative. Instead she was plain and worked as a grocery checker. I blamed her for Dad leaving. I told her just that. Our words of disgust, failure hung in the air of home that you could cut with a knife.

The odd, maybe strange thing really, once I left, said I didn't want to be there anymore, I missed her.

I missed home. I really felt the definition of being alone.

I never thought being 16 would be this hard. 

[lifeulista]

He asked for Paper. I saw love. As told by Tennley.

Looking back it seems all kind of silly. I really hated 10th grade last year. It wasn't just a going through the motions. It was pretending I even cared.

I couldn't figure out what was wrong with me. I noted my flaws, spiral books full of them. My hair. My eyes. My skin. My lips. My backside. My side. My arms. My legs. My chest, lack there of. Like I said, books of notes.

Boys never noticed me. I seem invisible. When you are wall dressing to the world, you have a keen sense of your surroundings.

I noticed everything. I heard every word. In some ways I lived my life through others. 

I am the ultimate nerd. I find memorizing things fun. I count things, my steps, how many miles I walk. I keep track of details. I can remember what my friend Sarah wore three weeks ago. Stupid details. 

 I saw Chad when he came into History of Civilizations. Third hour, Monday through Friday. Day in and day out. I didn't care much about what we were supposed to be studying, but I did care about him.

It was if time stopped when he sat down next to me as luck would have it. Our teacher Mr. Benson had assigned seats and I won the lottery on that. 

After three weeks he turned around and asked to borrow some paper. I felt elated. It had to be a sign. I was so nervous and wanted the paper exchange to be so perfect that I nearly forgot what he asked for in the first place. 

Sooner than later, we exchanged hellos and hi's, or otherwise known as "whats up." Mr. Benson believed in group projects of every and any kind. The less time he actually had to teach I think made him happy.

I actually started looking forward to class. It had to be fate, destiny. Would we be one of those couples you read about in the New York Times? "We met in History class in the 10th grade...."

I had already written our Engagement and Wedding announcements. I know, premature. We hadn't really made it out of anything more than a common greeting. 

For weeks, months even, I "dated" Chad in my mind. It was this fantasy world I created I think to escape the reality that I lived.

In some respects I had this alter ego; Secure, Pretty and Popular. I was Chad's better half. We were the golden couple that everyone wanted to be, and be around.

But then the hour bell would buzz and poof!  reality set in again. Before I could awake from the created life I was living, Chad would be fast out of his seat and gone. 

As the year ended, and nothing much more of a relationship between Chad and I that extended beyond a hello materialized. I realized that my imagination had got the best of me.

I understood myself maybe a bit better. I finally "broke up" with Chad.

I know, you are likely thinking, I am crazy! How can you break up with someone who never looked at your twice? That the extent of sharing was you giving him some paper? 

But you know what, the created part felt real. My fantasy gave me hope that sooner than later I will find a guy that likes me back, for all my weirdness and odd traits.

High School is like that. You gain, you loose. You want to be older, yet you hold on to the gate of youth. School starts in a month. I am not sure if I will see Chad again, but it doesn't matter.

I think next year will be different. I will be noticed and known. I will make an effort to let others in. I won't just life the life I want. I will become someone you want to know. You will see. 

[lifeulista]

What I used to be. As told by Nicole G.

The few times I have told some of my friends, which really means everyone knows, that I rid myself of what I eat after every meal, I am given stares of disbelief and bewilderment.

Can't you just not eat so much? Don't you find what you do, disgusting? I used to, but now it seems routine, normal. 

A few days ago, my friend Cara invited me to dinner with some friends she had in town from College. I was in one of my between states of diet behavior.

Not extreme, but keeping myself focused on trying to get better but still feeling the urge.  Without warning, Cara who usually likes to be the center of attention, announced as we started dinner, "Nicole throws up her food most of the time, lets hope tonight she doesn't."  

I can only say I did not stay long at dinner and the food I did eat was soon removed from my body. I did the opposite of what she had hoped.

I am honesty scared of the future.

I try to control my pattern, my usual-ness now. But for some reason I can't. I get a sense of fear when I feel food in my body, almost as if my nerves just start reacting.

I pace after every meal hoping that this one time I can overcome how I feel and rationalize the fact that I will be alright if I do not get rid of my meal.

I usually fail. 

I want to be the girl that used to be the girl that I am now. I was funny, carefree, happy and accepting.

For some reason, beyond my own reasoning, I started slowly disliking the Nicole that was and wanted to be someone different. I figured food was that bridge I needed to address and at first I felt that I could have it both ways.

What I didn't realize was at the time, in doing what I do to change the person that I was to be something more acceptable and liked, I have never been more alone. 

I want to have what I used to be. 

[lifeulista]

Hear my Voice. Do you? As told by Alana.

I am afraid  to tell. I am afraid to lie. But if I do the former, then I will be caught in the later.

Two years ago I over-dosed on the various diet remedies I had been ingesting. My habits became routine. What a year before would be considered abnormal became opposite.

In some ways I didn't even recognize myself in the mirror. I was 15 going on 50. Rushed to the ER, stomach pumped and hospitalized for a psychiatric hold.

I do not remember much of those dark hours and days that followed, but the clanking of the door behind me, lock solid, I do. Options limited, choices few.

I soon learned  that to get out behind that door and live freedom, I had to find a cure or least pretend one. In so many ways, the kindness of those who work to help people like me still believe, even with all of their science, training and "tricks of the trade" knowledge, that when someone says they want to get better, or show a little effort to just that, they do. 

I said what I had to say. Cried the tears I had to share. Took responsibility that I had to take.

My humiliation was the humility that was sought. I was given choices, a plan and the fear of "what could be you if you don't stop...." instilled. 

Sooner than later, my life returned. I went home, summer came and went. School started again.

For a while I felt cured! I felt peace. Instead of living my life with ability, I lived my life running in fear of what could happen if the choices I had once made did not stop.

What I found, discovered really, was fear only lasts so long. It wears off. You become complacent. Eventually, over time, I took back to my old habits.

First I skipped a meal, one here, one there. And soon it became normal. If I told myself I wasn't hungry, then I wasn't. All along, knowing too well, I felt the chips at my armor crack.

What once was a slip-up became a tidal wave of normal, accepted behavior. I could always stop I rationalized. I did before, right?

Here I am now, existing. All my promises, broken. All my assurances forgotten. There aren't any more cracks to have. My Mom, sensing danger or maybe remembrance of behavior past, asked me if I was "alright."

A question asked not really wanting an answer. I told her of course, I was just "tired." I became a master at deception, of believing my own lies that not only I told myself, but exhibited to everyone around me.

One lie told made another all the more easy to explain, share. I became a running rendition of conversational explanations.

It wasn't rational. It wasn't living. 

Here I am now. This moment staring at tomorrow and not sure how to finish living today.

I want to tell that I have failed, fallen back, but I can't. I am not sure if it is pride, or the reluctance to accept temporary failure. Or maybe both.

I know though, whatever my outcome, in the here and the now, my time feels borrowed. My heart feels beholden. My mind feels overwhelmed. My body feels tired.

With that, my voice still seeks a chance. 

[lifeulista]

The Cut. As told by LaShanda R.

I appear calm, almost collected. Studious. Termed "geeky" and when I walk into a room "nerd alert," if such an alert could be heard, would be applied in earnest.

All my looking glass appearance of self is just that. I am expected to have a 4.0. I am expected to understand math, linear equations and know the distance and gravity pull of both the Sun and Pluto.

I am, however, jealous beyond reason of the kids who aren't considered "smart." I hate the term geek. I wish I weren't a nerd.

And no matter how cool "nerd glasses" look, when was the last time you actually saw a real nerd wearing them?

To manage, deal, even understand I hold a secret of behavior I dare never share. I self harm. I am embarrassed at what I do.

I know all the clinical reasons as to why I should not. What could happen to me if I continue. In some ways, this risk of the "unknown effect" drives me.

I know some of the kids I desire to be like do what I do. I see the marks on their arms and legs. But unlike them I do not do it because it is "considered" popular.

I do it because it gives me control of peace. 

I know my Mom says that when I am older life will be better and that people like me will be accepted and admired. All this high school stuff is just a small point in time of my overall life.

I know she says it and the rational side of me believes it. But it doesn't feel that way.

I waver between life and death, wanting to go that extra inch and cut further, deeper . So very close, yet so far away. 

I wish growing up were easier. It isn't.

I wish I accepted myself, but I do not.

I wish I could trust myself enough to allow me the opportunity for confidence.

I wish, in a way, that I could be you. 

[lifeulista]

The How and the Why to Me. As told by Patricia W.

It was by chance that I discovered the how. I already knew the why. It is strange in reading the latest story of a celebrity fallen because of their drug use, divorce, break-up or as in my case, "eating fragile" state otherwise known as anorexia, that you gain the how so you can solve the "why." 

I vowed my instant diet which gave me confidence of gratification would be my silent secret.

I could pretend all was well, that health was mine and I controlled it. Happy, sad. It didn't matter, I had a plan to fulfillment and a body in progress that soon would be completion.

I didn't make the volleyball team last year, so with my program I will.

At the start, of which today, makes three months, friends and my family commented that I was looking better and healthier. My Mom had pestered me for years to loose weight, and see, I am finally doing it.

It wasn't so much a diet, it was a way I could live in both worlds; one in which I could still have it all, treats and the solitude of my food relationship and two; in the world where I had to have limits, controls. 

I feel in control, but there is a small part of me that doesn't agree.

Before this all started I didn't think about food in the way that I do now. It wasn't so much of a priority. Now it is a ritual. A measurement of time, avoidance and more of a race against something that is there, invisible, but only I can feel.

Weighing more in my mind is the fact of need, I have to make the team this fall. This other thing can wait.