I'm drunk and emotional, thus i should not be blogging. Read on at your own risk...
(special thanks to sevenshadesofa and bananasongthat who took interest in my first post concerning my dad - I shall reply once I'm not totally drunk)
So. I've been writing with a great friend who stopped talking to me a while ago and started again yesterday. I'm incredibly drunk - only had three glasses of cider but I'm not used to alcohol anymore, a fact that I like.
I've just returned from a night of drinks with my father. I just read a letter from my Mom. It's 1 am and I should not be blogging. But I shall write this anyway. This will be dark, and honest, and brutal, and I don't care I just have to get this out.
Like this i at least have the illusion of people reading this, of someone being there, listening. If you want, read this and send me a message afterwards if you know what you want to say. or read it and just like it, so I can see that someone bothered to read it in the first place.
Or ignore it. I can totally understand it. I ignore these posts as well most of the time.
Why am I drunk? - My father's in town (Berlin) for a conference and whenever he is, we go out for drinks. He's paying, so I ordered alcohol. I need alcohol whenever I'm alone with my day.
Why? Because you see, my family is really fucked up. Maybe just a little bit more fucked up than your average family.
So my big sister, Silvia, has been in therapy for Overeating for the past 14 years. I was 11 when she first went away and I only learnt 6 months ago why she went to a clinic the first time.
Turns out my (our) father abused her sexually. She remembered when she was 20, made our middle sister, Nelly, drive her to the emergency psychiatric unit because she didn't trust herself.
I only learnt this ten years later, after both our mother and Nelly had told her that they don't believe her. Can you imagine that?!?!?!
Right now I'm on a mission to make my sis and my mum talk, to make my Mum see that even if she doesn't define somethign as abuse or rape, it's not her opinion that matters. If the "victim"/"survivor" defines something as rape, it IS rape. Period. But I'm studying anthropology so trusting people's definition of things is something I've been taught. My mum never learnt that.
Since our family is the master of silence, no one talks about this. Silvia and Mum argued and didn't talk for YEARS after the initial reveal. It's all very complicated - bottom line: no one in this damn family ever learnt to express feelings in a healthy way.
So, my dad. I can't for the life of me remember any non-con situations with him. So he probably didn't rape ME. But ever since I knew I don't know how to act. Am I allowed to be happy that he sends me a post card or not?
But my dad never cared much. I watched him rave about my sister Nelly's doctorate, saying he'll frame it, put it on a wall. I wished he'd be proud of me like that. Fuck, I wrote the best a-levels in my family!!! I wrote play that were perfomred on stage! Plays that moved people! Any my mum was always proud, genuinely proud. But my dad never cared.
When I was 14 and the doctorate never got framed, I realized my dad will never be proud of me. I have accepted that now.
So I got drunk today and the drunker I got the more amenable I was to my father's presence. We joked. We laughed. I stumbled home, flirted with some random guy because it's been ages since I got laid.... he didn't even speak much German but I was drunk I didn't care.
Aaaaand the cherry on top of this sundae of shit life dealt my family: I am a bulimic.
You hear me, internet? I'M BULIMIC.
I never mentioned it before since tumblr is a space free of my eating disorders; it's where I come to have a great time. But yes, I am bulimic.
Which just adds another layer of fucked up to everything. My relationship to food is screwed. Seeing a picture of a pizza can trigger me.
I lost 30 pounds between the age 16 and 17. It was good; I discovered sports, changed my diet. but I restricted too much. Add to that the fact that I never learnt to love myself as I am and you've got a bundle of body image issues right there.
So yeah, bulima started as the solution to all my weight problems and is now slowly but surely destroying my life, turning me anti social and making me think I might actually be depressed.
I used to have so much energy. Now it all goes into my addiction.
I can count those who know on one hand: My mum, who doesn't get it. My sister Nelly who might have an eating disorder of her own but is too deep in denial. Silvia, who has been in therapy for binge eating and rape trauma for 14 years.
and my aunt, who was always cooler than my mum, more my wavelength and as I discovered a few weeks ago, probably anorexic in her late twenties.
As of tonight, my former best friend from my home town also knows. He used to tell me everything. At some point he stopped writing. I don't know why but he wrote again two days ago.
I'm drunk and emotional so I came clean, told him about my eating disorder, about the rape within my family. I feel relieved... I know he won't tell anyone but he needs to process first. He never knew, which is good - bulimics excell in keeping their addiction hidden. We're control freaks, really.
What really drove me over the edge, though, was my Mum's letter.
I asked her about Silvia and the rape in November 2013. She begged for time to process, especially during xmas. I procrastinated, I ignored the problem which I have been taught so well to do in my family.
Then I wrote her a letter. Silvia is very fragile, defensive in conversations. I thought letters may be a way to deal with that. Plus my Mum never knows what to say. So I wrote her a letter, asking her to think about what Silvia told her again; maybe ask Silvia what happened, so that Mum can understand.
And now my Mum wrote to me. She's worried. She worries a lot, all the time. She's a worrier. It's annoying but it's also sweet.
She wrote that she doesn't think I'm happy. And that it grates her.
I'm not. Happy, that is. I constantly think about food, my body, possible weight gain. My finances. I spent hundreds of euros on food I will just purge anyway and I can't stop. I just want to write, direct. Have a job, not just study. Do something. I do write, but fanfiction. I practice, I tell myself. I do. But I fear I won't ever manage to make the cut to actually earn money from it.
I quit my job at the hotel after having to force myself to work for weeks. here's food. I'm bulimic, I don't like delicious food standing around, begging to be eaten.
And I miss private tutoring. I have a job interview next week. I have a 1,2 average mark.... I guess that's a 4,0 GPA? I rock my courses. I am smart. I am fun to be around, if I actually make it out of the house.
But life isn't a system of grades.
The first and so far only time I cried in therapy was when I realized that I don't get credit for progress. That therapy isn't like a class with assignments and continuous progress.
And now I'm sitting on my bed, sobering up, typing away and lamenting how bad I have it.
I really need to sleep. It's almost 2am. I have therapy tomorrow at 11. My therapist will have a field day...
Anyway. I had to get this out, even if no one actually makes it this far. If you do, leave a kudo. Send me a message. If you have an eating disorder or are suffering from similar problems, please, message me! I will answer privately. I do want to talk. Maybe I can give some perspective since I'm 23 and most of the users here are still teenagers.
So. Acknowledge this. Or ignore me. Whatever you chose to do, I will go to bed now. Sleep off my inebriation. I will reply tomorrow.
