The Shell of Me

Once upon a time she existed—the real me. The me who smiled and said thank you, and yes ma’am, no ma’am, yes sir, no sir, you’re welcome, have a great day. The me who was modest, who wore long pants and skirts and loose-fitting shirts and hijab because she felt it liberated her as a woman. The me who didn’t take risks because she feared the consequences. The me who valued education over vanity.

Now here I am. A whore. A common whore. I slept with my friend. Technically slept (I won’t bore you with the details). But I’ll start here.

I told him I didn’t want to sleep with him. I told him that I was uncomfortable with my body and sexuality and neither of us is in a position to be in a relationship. “So, we won’t call it a relationship,” he says. “Then it sounds like you just want to have sex with me,” I respond. “No, it’s not that….” But of course it’s that. It’s always that. He yanks and pulls at me and tries to get me up to go into the bedroom with him and I tell him I have a lot of issues to work on before I’m ready to have sex with someone. He’s visibly upset, but he doesn’t have a choice but to accept my decision. After an awkward moment we decide to watch a movie. The entire time in my mind I’m thinking about how I want to jump on top of him and ride him like a horse. A couple of times I actually think about doing it.

It’s not until the movie is over and we get up to stretch and use the bathroom that the action happens. As he is coming out of the bathroom and I am going in he grabs me by the waist and we kiss—a tender, sweet kiss. Again…again…and then we’re in my room and the door is closed and my clothes are coming off. It feels good, in the moment. The adrenaline, the hormones. But the afterwards—the yuck, the why-in-the-hell-did-I-do-that-and-with-him-of-all-people-when-I-told-him-no-the-first-time, the “what the f*** did I do?”

Her innocence, her grace, her charm—is gone. What’s left is a shell. A shell of me, of former me, as I left her.

Cutting

Today was a decent day. I went to the gym and worked out for an hour. I both worked out and walked a lot, burning a total of 636 calories for the day. I only took in 65 calories—liquid calories, at that. I stopped at Barnes and Noble and bought a magazine about photography because I love taking photos of nature and I want to learn more about photography. Then I went to Divas Who Win—a Freedom Center for women recovering from prostitution, addiction, and sex trafficking. As a survivor of sex trafficking, I find going to Divas very liberating. I missed my noon dose of Neurontin, so I took an emergency Ativan to keep calm. When I got home at 3:15 I took my Neurontin, then I took my four o’clock dose of Neurontin, so I was sedated. I went grocery shopping with my neighbor at Walmart, but when I came home everything changed.

I had already planned to binge and purge. My roommate told me she would be out having dinner with a friend, and when I came home from the grocery store she was gone. While I put my groceries away I made two Chow Mein noodles—my favorite, and easy to purge. As I shoveled the food down my throat I gulped down diet Mountain Dew to make the noodles easier to come up. The second I finished I ran to the toilet and regurgitated everything I had just eaten. I cleaned up my mess, went outside and vaped and actually thought about doing it all over again. But I didn’t.

Later on in the evening as I was coming back from taking my medicine at the main office I saw my neighbor and I decided to go up and talk to him. He gave me a hug and we made formal introductions, and he showed me his house. He asked me out on a date. He’s very old. I’m 27, I’d say he has to be in his 50s. It was a borderline creepy. I told him “I have a very busy schedule,” instead of saying “no.” Why? I’m a people pleaser. I will sacrifice my needs for yours. He doesn’t have a chance, but he  doesn’t know that.

He kept telling me how pretty I am and how he always gets nervous around pretty girls. He said he’s been to prison and he’s been married five times, each time he cheated (why would I want to be with you again?), and he kept finding excuses to touch me. He kept asking me if I was okay, and of course I wasn’t (I was super creeped out and super uncomfortable) but I didn’t want him to know that. To get away from him I told him my medication had kicked in and it was time for me to get ready for bed. Then he had the audacity to ask me what I take! That’s private. I skirted around the question, but he told me that he takes an antidepressant that makes him sleepy. Congratulations.

I came home and all I could think about was how yucky I felt. My brain kept thinking “CUT, CUT, CUT.” I stood up to get my razor and I sat down, I stood up, and I sat down. I made up my mind to hurt myself and I changed it and then—BAM! I decided to do it. I stood and grabbed a washcloth from the linen closet and a razor from my room in its hiding place under my desk lamp. I went into the bathroom and closed the door, turned the tub water on, leaned over the bathtub and began slicing my left wrist. The slashes were violent, intentional. The more I cut the more I believed I deserved the punishment—both for bingeing and purging and for leading my neighbor on. The blood flowed and the slashes grew bigger and deeper until finally I stopped. It looked like I needed stitches. I rinsed the blood off my wrist, placed the washcloth over the lacerations and applied pressure to stop the bleeding. I cleaned the tub of blood and residue. When the bleeding was under control I put a BandAid over the cuts.

I don’t know how to feel. I know I probably need stitches but I’m too afraid to go to the hospital because I don’t want them to throw me in the loony bin. I’m 99% sure I need stitches. Like, the cut is so deep I can actually see a vein pumping blood. If I cut one more time I’m likely to kill myself. I see my therapist tomorrow, and I’m going to have to tell her about this. At the very least she’s going to see the bandage. This might be a setback. They might send me up the road if they find out. Which means I won’t be able to blog, or work out, and my freedom will be relinquished. My wrist hasn’t stopped bleeding. I’m worried. But I can’t go to the hospital. I’ll go to the ER tomorrow. If you go the day of the incident they’re more likely to send you off; if you go the day after they’re more likely to let you go. I’m scared.

Stay skinny, my friends. ❤

Just for Today

I’m feeling depressed today. I feel like harming myself—cutting, that is. I feel like bingeing and purging my brains out. At the same time I feel like never eating again. I feel like OD’ing. Taking all my Ativan, laying down and going to sleep, never to wake up. Although I don’t know if I have enough to actually kill myself. I am thinking about a way to sneak my medication and hide it in my pocket (like I’ve done before) so I can overdose. So I can finally be free.

But just for today I want to be happy. Just for today I want to reminisce about the good times. Just for today I don’t want to think about death and destruction. Just for today I don’t want to be bothered with paranoid thoughts. Just for today I want to move forward instead of backward. Just for today I want to use my coping skills. Just for today I want to tell myself I love myself. Just for today I don’t want food to consume my every thought. Just for today I don’t want to get on the scale. Just for today I want to survive, not thrive, because I’m not ready for that yet. Just for today I want to forgive. Just for today I want to block out all negativity. Just for today I don’t want to binge and purge. Just for today I don’t want to think about my weight. Just for today I want to have positive thoughts.

Just for today I want to live.

Flushing

“Flushing” is the practice in which people who purge—by forcing themselves to vomit—vomit, then drink fluids, then make themselves vomit, then drink fluids, etc, until one of three things happen: either the fluids they ingested come up clear of food particles, they feel that their stomach is “empty,” or they are vomiting stomach (hydrochloric) acid. This is done to ensure every bit of food they ate is emptied out of their gut.

In emergency medicine, flushing, or gastric lavage, is conducted with a nasogastric (NG) tube, a tube that is introduced into the nostril and goes down into the stomach. Flushing is used to control bleeding in the stomach and to rid the body of highly lethal amounts of poison. Body temperature saline is introduced into the stomach via the nasogastric tube and then removed via the NG tube, over and over, until the fluid runs clear of debris. Flushing has been abandoned in favor of using activated charcoal.

Flushing that is not monitored by a medical professional is dangerous. End of sentence. Flushing rids the body of essential amounts of electrolytes, including potassium, which is necessary for proper heart function. No potassium—you’ve got a problem. Hypokalemia (low blood potassium) can lead to heart problems and/or cardiac arrest more often than you’d think. Furthermore, flushing can lead the purger to feel tired, weak, dizzy, shaky, or even to have heart palpitations after the flushing session. There are no statistics on how many people who purge also use the “flushing” method.

Despite all this information, I myself, am a “flusher.” Yes, I am a hypocrite. But I state the above information because I want people to be informed—because I don’t want anyone to be in my position. Ever. I would not wish an this on anyone. Constantly I worry about my weight. I weigh myself every morning, without fail. I refuse to look at my naked body in the mirror because I don’t want to face how absolutely fat I am (I’m 5’2” tall, 126.2 pounds—medically a “normal” weight—but absolutely unacceptable to me), even though I’ve lost about five pounds in three or so days. Right now I’m 58 hours into a 168 hour (7 day) fast, but I binge/purged last night and two days ago and “flushed” both times. I haven’t eaten or drank anything else except my daily morning cup of coffee, diet sodas and water with a maximum of two packets of Crystal Light (ten calories each) to keep my blood sugar up. No matter how much weight I lose (even 11 pounds in two weeks)—it’s never enough.

This all was triggered on my birthday (October the 3rd). My friend took me to a seafood joint to celebrate me turning 27. I decided to go because I was in a good mood that day, I wanted to entertain him, and I wanted to be normal for once—to not think about food or calories or my weight. So I ate a salmon burger, French fries and some crawfish fried rice. I thought about going to the bathroom to purge, but I had makeup on and I didn’t want to come back with my eyeliner smeared. After we ate, he had to return a pair of jeans to the thrift store. So while we were there I decided to shop for new clothes. One of the items I picked out was a cute dress that was my size and he said, “I don’t think you’re going to fit that.” To which I answered, “are you calling me fat?” “No, I’m saying you’re ‘pleasantly plump’.” A man who was walking by heard our conversation and said “he’s saying you have all the right junk in all the right places.”

My friend further explained once we were out of the store. He said, “you’re not fat. I like your body. You’re just the right size.” But all I heard was “pleasantly plump.” I was stuck on it; I ruminated on it. At that time I was about 132 pounds, medically, still a healthy weight. I was still trying to diet, but after I heard “pleasantly plump” I veered off the train tracks. I started fasting more, purging more. I made up a diet “schedule”: Monday-fast, Tuesday-500 calories, Wednesday-fast, Thursday-500 calories, Friday-fast, Saturday-500 calories, Sunday-500 calories.

I had trouble sticking to it at first. By the end of my fasting days I was dizzy, weak and felt lightheaded and like I was going to pass out. At the end of my 500 calorie days I was left wanting more; I would binge eat at night and then be mad at myself the next day, when I woke up and over a few days I was steadily gaining weight a few ounces at a time. Now, 58 hours into an indefinite fast, I feel great. Yeah, sure I binge/purged twice since I started. But since I flushed I don’t count it as breaking my fast. The benefit of flushing (for me) is that yesterday I lost 2.6 pounds. Today I lost 2.2 pounds. I’m probably dehydrated as hell and depleted of essential potassium, but it’s worth it if it means I’m going to lose weight more quickly. I’d rather fast than binge/purge/flush. It’s more satisfying and I find that my stomach has shrunk. I don’t get hungry. I don’t crave food, except when I get the urge to eat what I want without absorbing the calories.

I admit, my eating patterns are abnormal, but I don’t have an eating disorder. Deny, deny, deny! I have a lot of problems, but this is not one of them. Some people choose Weight Watchers, some people choose Jenny Craig, some people use Noom. I do long fasts and I occasionally overeat then rid myself of the food by vomiting. I don’t fit criteria for an eating disorder. I use my own type of diet, and it works for me. When I’m 60 pounds—then I have a problem.

The moral of this story: don’t choose this life. Don’t binge eat, don’t purge, don’t “flush.” But if you must, please be safe. Stay skinny, my friends. ❤️

The First Binge

Hello readers! I’ve been gone for a while. Loongggg story.

Last year I was living in Savannah, Georgia when a lot of messed up stuff went down. I was sexually assaulted in the middle of the night by a man I was supposed to trust (it typically happens that way). I was literally coerced out of my home at one o’clock in the morning. He called me and told me he would not get off the phone with me until I got out of bed and got in his car. Then he drove me to a remote location and molested me. I reported it, and during the investigation he resigned because he knew I was telling the truth, and otherwise the agency he was working for would have fired him. Now he can’t ever work as a certified peer specialist again. I filed a police report, but the special victims unit wouldn’t take my case because of a couple stupid text messages and a misconstrued statement from him. I get it, but I don’t. Prosecution would have ripped me to shreds on the stand, but I would have loved to have had a chance to put his slimy ass behind bars. I tried to take out a pre-warrant on his ass but I was arrested for probation violation before I could complete the process and I left Savannah before I had the chance.

I was transferred to a jail in Dublin, Georgia, where I sat for three months, waiting the next steps. I was bullied for the first time in my life. I reached my lowest weight of 107 pounds—just skin and bones. The other girls were disgusted with me, but I think it was worry disguised as anger. I didn’t do well in jail that go round, but I got the judge to order the jail to give me all of my mental health medications since the last time I went through such terrible withdrawals when I came home I was seen in the ER three times in five days—once I was unresponsive. Because I was bullied so badly I was transferred to a jail in a neighboring county to get away from the girls who were so brutal to me. But eventually those girls bullied me too. I couldn’t take it anymore and I planned a suicide attempt. One Saturday, when they gave out razors, I wrote a note, numerating all the reasons I was taking my life, I locked myself in my room, and I made a gash in my arm—long ways—expecting to bleed out. It didn’t work, and I was forced to report myself to the jail staff. I was subsequently taken to a nearby hospital, were I was given seven stitches and six staples, and placed on antibiotics. The antibiotics didn’t stop me from getting sepsis, though, and I spent five days in the hospital on intravenous antibiotics (on my 26th birthday), and then five more days in a state mental hospital recovering from my attempt. When I got out, I went back to the jail in Dublin. I was sentenced to nine months in a mental health treatment facility. Before I left, in September of that year I was molested by a male inmate while I was in isolation because I was psychotic. I reported the inmate, and the whole incident had been caught on camera. The male staff called me a “ho” and a “whore” and a “bitch” because I allowed the inmate to touch me. What they didn’t have was the audio to the visual. What they didn’t know was that before he touched me I said no, but he was so persistent I agreed. What they forgot was I was in a compromised frame of mind and I couldn’t legally give consent. Double whammy in less than a year.

Georgia Department of Corrections works on mental health levels. These levels are one through four, level one being most functional, requiring least attention, level four being least functional, requiring most attention. When I went into the facility I was a level two. When I came out that same day I was a level three, and I was diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder and transferred to Lee Arrendale State Prison, the only place I could be treated for my mental health level. During my time there I became more paranoid—I began to think the government was surveilling me, that people could read my thoughts, that there was a man who was following me around taking pictures of me with an x-ray camera, that there was a woman who had stolen my identity and had killed someone and that the police were accessing my subconscious to see if I was her. (I still think these things.) I attempted suicide twice in treatment—once busting my chin and receiving six stitches, the second time giving myself a concussion. I left the prison a mental health level four. I was released back into the community as homeless.

By the time I was released I had gained about 20 pounds. I was on several different medications to manage my mental health disorders—schizoaffective disorder, PTSD, borderline personality disorder and history of anorexia/bulimia nervosa (because I was not actively starving or purging). I stayed at the Salvation Army by night and pounded the pavement in the hot sun by day. I met a gentleman I eventually called “boyfriend.” He was mentally and emotionally abusive, and I would eventually overdose twice to get away from him, seeing suicide as a way to get away from him once and for all. The last time I attempted suicide—19 August—I was admitted to the ICU on a ventilator, then admitted to a state hospital for over a month. In that time my social worker found me an apartment.

This first day I got to my apartment the ACT Team (Assertive Community Treatment) took me shopping at the grocery store. I tried to buy things low in calories, to help me stay within my 500 to 600 calorie limit. I’m successful, but I spend waaayyyyy over my $50 limit. They say it’s okay. I wind up shopping more at Walmart, but they’re low calorie items, healthy things, things with lots of protein to keep me feeling full. Yesterday I did well during the day—I stuck to my calorie limit. Then I went to the homeless day center where people donate lots of food and where there’s typically a lot of free stuff and I picked up a steak, rice and bean bowl and ate it for dinner. First mistake. Then later on that night I ate two Lunchables, some candy, and a fruit cup. IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT. About eleven o’clock. I convinced myself it was okay because it wasn’t twelve yet—it wasn’t a new day. Needless to say I woke up two pounds heavier this morning. 🤦‍♀️ I didn’t even purge. I thought about it. I wanted to. But my meds and laziness kept me in bed. Never again.

Anyways, that’s why I’ve been gone people. I hope you haven’t missed me terribly bad. I missed blogging. My goal weight is 100 by the end of the year. By ANY. MEANS. NECESSARY. I think it’s totally possible. Thirty pounds? That’s ten pounds a month. That’s realistic. But I have to fast for three days because of this unfortunate mishap. Only one cup of coffee in the morning (45 calories), Diet Coke and water during the day.

Stay beautiful. ❤️

27 Days, cnt’d

Soooooo…I told you guys that I would make the “27 Days” post over a month ago, but I’ve been so busy working and have been too tired to post after work, or even on weekends, because I’m quite literally exhausted. I work as a waitress, and we get no breaks in an eight-hour shift. It’s Georgia law that employers have the right to give or not give their employees a break. I am in-between jobs (not what it sounds like–I stopped one job, iHop, and got a better job, Olive Garden, but they are waiting for medical documentation that they are not going to get from my psychiatrist. He refuses to write it. So, we’ll see). He will, however give information that I cannot work swing shift because of my bipolar disorder.

I was in jail for 27 days. Because I missed ONE day of mental health class. Here’s what happened.

In September of 2018 I reported to my probation officer that I was ill and was not going to attend group that day. She never texted me back, so I went ahead and stayed home. Later I would find out she was on vacation. My case was sent back to the county I caught my charge in (Laurens). My probation officer caught wind of me having not attended class and she put out a warrant for my arrest. (Unfortunately, this is one of the stipulations of my probation–that if I am not working, volunteering, or going to school I must attend class). My old probation officer came and visited me and informed me that a warrant had been put out for my arrest, but that she had “taken care of it” and she was not going to arrest me. One month later (October 15th), the police came knocking at my door. It was unexpected. At first, I didn’t answer because I thought it was this girl who liked to come to my house early in the morning and drink coffee. I didn’t feel like having coffee that day. But then there was a knock at my bedroom door. I figured it was staff checking on me. I opened the door and there was a police officer there. “Ma’am, can you step out of the room?” I did as he said. He slapped cuffs on me and said, “ma’am, we have a warrant out for your arrest.” I was shocked. I cried to whole way to the Chatham county jail.

I was transferred to the Laurens county jail (cried the whole way there–handcuffed and everything), where I stayed for 27 DAYS. I was taking ten pills a day before I was arrested, all but one a necessary, psychiatric medication to keep me from hearing voices, seeing things, crazy mood swings, extreme anxiety, depression, mania, and insomnia. I told them each of the medications I took, how often I took it, and how much I took. They confirmed it with my ACT Team (a type of mental health service here in Savannah). They automatically said I wouldn’t be getting my Klonopin (a benzodiazepine, for anxiety) because it is a drug that inmates sell. Effexor, my antidepressant, was an automatic no as well, because the company they contracted with didn’t have Effexor in their formulary. The only medication they gave me was my Lithium (for bipolar disorder). 

I went days without being properly medicated, and I went days without sleep. I was so sleep-deprived that by the fourth day without sleep, I was just wondering around aimlessly in the cell–like a zombie–while everybody else slept. I wanted to sleep so bad, but when I closed my eyes, sleep refused to come. So I was up and I was down, up and down–laying down to try and sleep, getting up again due to withdrawal symptoms or restlessness, then laying back down and closing my eyes, waiting for sleep, but being disappointed every time. In addition  to being sleep-deprived, I started hallucinating and I was withdrawing from all of my psychiatric medications. Hot sweats, cold sweats, nausea, vomiting, disorientation, moodiness, blurred vision, a general “weird” feeling–it was just like withdrawing from a street drug (although I don’t know what that feels like. I’ve just seen it on TV). I was miserable. I begged the nurse to give me something to sleep-I just wanted to sleep. The night they had to take me out of the cell, I had become homicidal. I was now a danger to the other girls, and had to be removed for both my safety and theirs. I spent a week and a half in female holding (which is in the booking office, however it is only a one-man cell). I wouldn’t move my hands, my body wouldn’t comply with the demands I was sending my brain, so whenever I stood up, I often fell backwards on the metal toilet, and I had bruises all over my body. It was frustrating and painful.

The day I finally went to court and was given a second chance, I was completely off my meds, but I was elated. My boyfriend at the time (I’ll explain about what happened to him in another entry) drove two and a half hours to come get me. I was so glad to be out of that jail and back into the free world–and I knew I would get my medication when I got home.

I had two seizures (one in the holding cell, and one at my ex-boyfriend’s house), and passed out three times. I was taken to the ER three times in two days because of complications from getting back on my psych meds. Once because I was unresponsive. Take heed, to those who think that they don’t need to take their psych meds because, “I feel fine. I don’t need this medication!” DON’T EVER STOP TAKING YOUR MEDS. Number one, you’re going to decompensate (meaning all your symptoms will come back and you will get worse, perhaps even needing a psychiatric hospitalization). Plus, coming back on psych meds is a slow process, so you won’t feel as well as you did before you stopped taking your meds.

I’m doing well now…well, not really. I’m not doing well at all. My thoughts aren’t in the right place. I’m very severely depressed. My anxiety is through the roof. And I’m considering suicide. I’ve got a plan, and it’s already been initiated. I’m on Phase 3. There are 16 Phases.

I know I need help, but it will mess up my whole life. I’m trying to get a new job, and I’m supposed to meet with the manager on Tuesday morning. I can’t be in the hospital!! 

As far as my ED goes, my psychiatrist has officially changed my diagnosis from OSFED to bulimia nervosa. I’ve been going up and down and up and down on the scale, AND IT’S SOOOOOO FRUSTRATING. I’ll binge and purge, then pig out for days, then restrict/starve. I haven’t been able to get below 132, which is really devastating because I used to be 110. Nowadays, I try to keep food off of my schedule. On the days I don’t binge and purge, I restrict–strict 400 calorie liquid diet. Usually I start my day with a cup of coffee with creamer and sweetener–45 calories. For lunch I either have a Boost (180 calories) or a Bolthouse Farms pre-prepared shake (varying between 180 to 250 calories). For dinner, depending on my calorie count I may drink another cup of coffee, or I may not eat at all. I’m officially giving myself four months to lose 32 lbs, to get to my UGW. Body checks and weigh-ins starting tomorrow, and every Sunday for four months. Maybe if I know someone is watching I’ll be more motivated to lose weight and stay on track.

I’ll keep you guys posted, and I’m going to try to blog more (I got a roommate who has a laptop!). Please–read, comment, enjoy. Stay skinny ladies!  ❤

27 Days

I’ve got a lot to tell you, my readers, but I don’t have time right now, as I am on my phone.

This story is coming soon. Stay skinny. ❤

Finding the Strength to Live

As of today, my life as I know it is crumbling beneath me.

I found out via a phone call from my aunt that my father’s step-dad died in a car crash. Fortunately he didn’t take any other lives with him, as he was–of course–driving drunk. I wish I could say it wasn’t expected, but he had been a raging, abusive alcoholic for years, and drove drunk frequently. I remember one night, when I was 12 and I was visiting my grandparents at their home in Sparta, GA, my grandfather was driving the three of us kids and his wife home, and was pulled over and arrested for driving drunk . So, needless to say, he drove himself to his own demise. (Excuse the pun.) My grandmother and her daughter are beside themselves with grief. I cried most of the first day that I found out he had passed, even though we didn’t have a good relationship. After everything that happened to me in California, he provided me with food, shelter, and clothing, and he didn’t have to do any of that. So it’s almost like he was a third parent. I will not miss his alcoholic ways, but I will miss him.

Now, to add on to that, I have legal issues. I don’t recall if I mentioned that I have been both to jail and to prison, but I have been to jail and to prison. I was off my medication and held a knife to my roommate’s throat, who, instead of calling 9-1-1–where I would have been taken to a mental health facility and properly cared for–called the authorities (which I understand because I would have been scared shitless too), who proceeded to arrest me and take me to jail, where I rotted for a whole 14 months. After fighting the DA’s offer tooth and nail, I finally accepted a 10-serve-2 sentence–meaning I had to spend two years behind bars, and I have eight years of probation. That makes a total of ten years. So far, I have served four of that eight.

My probation conditions are very simple–stay away from the victim, comply with any and all recommended mental health services, and be in the house at curfew. My probation initiated in Dublin, GA, so when I got out of the hospital in Savannah, my probation had to transfer to a new city. I left Officer Spann, and was introduced to Officer Tucker–a probation officer trained in the mental health area, but who has no compassion or sympathy of any kind. All of a sudden, probation is a big deal. Tucker comes to see me often, even randomly popping up at the day treatment program to make sure I am in attendance.

The problem is that I missed some days early in the beginning of treatment because I was afraid and depressed (Officer Tucker maintains that depression is not an excuse to miss treatment–and she is supposed to be understanding. Last time I checked Major Depressive Disorder is a disability and can be debilitating), and I just missed a day about two weeks ago because I was sick. Unfortunately, probation got wind of this and my originating county put out a warrant for my arrest for “non-compliance.” Technically, I should be in jail right now, but when my PO came to see me a few days ago she told me that she kind of spoke up for me–telling my county that I attended treatment the next day, and I was doing well in treatment. So I was not arrested (or, rather, I haven’t been yet).

Because of my “non-compliance” my case was returned to its originating county. Back to Dublin, GA. Technically, meaning I am supposed to uproot myself and go back to Laurens county. I am supposed to leave my boyfriend and everything that we have going, leave the Reed House (which I will tell you all about in another entry on another day), leave my home, leave the ACT Team (the people who took me in and found me housing on an outpatient basis when I was released from the hospital), leave my therapist, leave my psychiatrist, leave my friends. Did they once have any interest in my well-being? I have no home, no money, no food. No friends or family in Dublin, GA. What are they expecting me to do–live under a bridge? Eat roadkill? Shower with sewer water? There are NO homeless shelters in Dublin. I would literally be living on the street.

I’m freaking out because I can’t go back to Dublin. I texted my ex PO an “irrational message” and she called me, angrily saying that “she was just doing her job, and that my case had been returned.” Then, frantic for answers, I texted my current PO, begging her to case my case back–that I would go to treatment at the Reed House even if I had Stage 4 brain cancer and I was in excruciating pain. She proceeded to call me, also angrily, and said that I needed to “stop texting me this foolishness before you make me mad.” That she had “saved me from being arrested, and didn’t want to hear any more of that foolishness.” When I argued that my case had been returned, she replied, “I don’t want to talk about that. I will call you when I need you.” Click.

My therapist called me this morning because I called her in hysteria about the fact that I may have to return to Dublin. I told her, as I have told three other people, and now you guys–if I go back to Dublin, I will kill myself, and this time I will be successful.

No joke.

I’m Home

Hey guys, I know I’ve been gone for a while, but, in all honesty, I was in the looney bin for two years. I needed the help, but I’m continuing to backslide since the day I got out.

I’m back to binging and purging, back to restricting/starving, back to cutting. But I’ve made more progress now than I ever have in my whole life! I’m 110 lbs! My lowest weight EVER! I’m aiming for 90, but everyone says that’s too much. Whatevs.

Just wanted to let you guys know that I’m okay after a suicide attempt that very nearly killed me. I took all of my Seroquel, Klonopin and Prazosin and went to bed. I woke up in a hospital bed with a tube down my throat and a pick line in my arm going to my heart because I gave myself pneumonia. I stayed in the hospital five days and was transferred to a crisis stabilization unit in Waycross, GA. From there, I was transferred to another CSU in Dublin, GA.

From there I was transferred to Georgia Regional Hospital in Savannah, GA, because I refused to eat. I lived there for two years. Only to fall short and relapse AGAIN.

Short entry and no pics as of the moment, but I’m still alive guys.

Stay skinny, my lovlies! ❤

Feeding Tubes and Probation Officers

Today sucked ass. My therapist found out I hadn’t eaten in a week, and he called me this morning and demanded that I eat something. But I wouldn’t. So he came to my house and told me to get in the car, he was going to take me to get a feeding tube. We ended up going back to his office and met my probation officer there, where we discussed whether they were going to send me to jail on probation violation, or send me to the hospital where they would strap me down and force a feeding tube down my throat. I still refused to eat, and told them that if I went to jail I would still refuse meals, so my therapist started the admission process for the hospital. He asked my probation officer what they they were going to do with my cats, and when she said they would have to call animal control, I lost it. Animal control would put them down instead of give them a good home.

So he gave me  one final chance: either eat something, or be locked away and forced to eat. So I told them if they brought me something I would eat. And I did. I was brought a veggie sub and I was forced to eat the whole thing while he sat there and watched, and then made me sit there with him so I wouldn’t purge!

Ugh, I was so miserable. I ended up coming home and cutting ( even though he told me not to. But as far as I’m concerned he can suck my big hairy dick). So now my shoulder is still bleeding and I still have sandwich in my stomach and I’m still miserable. Bullshit.

Hopefully I’ll have a better day tomorrow, but definitely a liquid fast ( as much as I can, at least) and laxatives to get this God damn subway out of me. (Sorry for ranting guys.)

Stay skinny, ladies! ❤