So I Wrote

I don't want to want to give up.

Oh, internet.

The last couple weeks I feel like I've lost control. I'm not on top of my school work anymore, I'm more sideways of it. Sometimes I'm straight up being trampled by it (while Simba screams my name and weeps). I feel like I've lost grip of my weight management. My apartment is in shambles again. The real control and order I worked so bloody hard to get over my life seems to have slipped away and I seem to be slipping back into emetophobic thoughts to make up for it. If I can't control the rest of my life, I will try to control this part. And it's so stupid of me, internet.

I've been getting moments of horror and panic over stomach twinges and "oh god, what if I have to wake up to throw up tonight?" and tonight I had more than a moment. I had two hours of horror and mounting anxiety. Internet, I fucking hated it. I loathed it and myself simultaneously.

Tonight I just want to cry. I want to cry out all the disgusting thoughts I'm having about 'it' and myself and be free of it. I am so sick of this shit. I cannot describe to you, Internet, just how much it angers me. I want this to be an inspiring blog, a freeing blog, a 'oh god, she said it aloud and I don't feel as alonenow' blog, a "if she can do it, so can I!' blog - I don't want my miseries to bring misery to others, I don't want to have people think that you can't get through things and change. Because you can.

But I also want to say that WHAT.THE. FUCK. I've been doing my CBT for 5 months now and holy shit fucking ballsacks I am still emetophobic. GAHGAHGAHGAHGAHGAH FRUSTRATION. I WANT TO GIVE UP. FUCK THIS SHIT. GODDAMNIT. WTF. *VIRTUAL GIVING OF THE FINGER*

Buuuuuuuuuuuut. I am so, so, so, so much better than I used to be. I let my husband drink expired milk after smell/taste test. I even drink expired milk after smell/taste test. I don't get many panic attacks anymore (which is why the anxiety I've had the lately has hit me so hard and rocked my world) and when I do I can successfully talk myself off the ledge in a matter of minutes (except for tonight, obviously).

My therapist said to give this deep-rooted phobia at least 6 months to be resolved. I am getting there. So fast sometimes, slower others. It's worth it. Every victory feels like freedom. Every victory leaves me giddy because I thought the last one left me feeling so very very free, but my God this new sense of freedom! It is so free! Oh my!

I wish I knew how to cut myself a little slack and give myself a pat on the back. And chill out. I am always 0% or 100%, no inbetweens. I am racing through emetophobia recovery and PTSD recovery and everything-else recovery as fast as I possibly can. I am not happy being just me the way I currently am. I don't think anyone is happy with me being the way I am now. I want to be the ULTIMATE CHAMPION me. Now. Yesterday. Always & Forever. It brings me so much shame that I am not Master Queen of the Universe and Whatever Else That May Lay Beyond of everything. It frustrates me because I know how hard I work, and yet I still get chastised for not being Master Queen of Everything Everywhere Right This Minute OMG Why Are You Not Perfect?

Internet. Tonight I am not perfect, I am not a ULTIMATE CHAMPION Master Queen. I have come far, but not all the way far... So my disgust with myself for being human, for having been broken, is climbing steadily higher, making me lose control of the simple things, making me trying to grasp control by freaking out over a bodily function which exists to keep me healthy and alive... making me want to flip the bird and just give up omgIamsotired.

But I can't give up.

BECAUSE THEN I WILL NEVER BE MASTER CHAMPION QUEEN OF EVERYTHING EVERYWHERE ALL THE TIME FOREVER ALWAYS AND EVER AND EVER.

 

Day 9 of the bandwagon

Day 09 Someone you didn’t want to let go, but just drifted.

There are several friends that sort of... went away and left me just scratching my head or alternatively! getting drunk aaaaand then drunk dialing them to ask why they didn't like me anymore.

Yeah, let's take a moment and suck on that particular taste of humiliation for a moment. Mmm. Delicious.

There's a reason that I bought a t-shirt that says "Don't Drink and Dial". Why do I never learn? Oh God, I hope I've learned.

The first friend I'm still kind of scratching my head over I met when I was just beginning my teenage years. We shared the same music tastes and would chat for hours every day. Any internetty thing you could do together we did - we were trolling before the word trolling existed. Then, quite suddenly, it wasn't there anymore. I got the very cold shoulder. And I've no idea why.

The other friend... I'm less scratching my head and more bursting out into a "DUDE WTF HUH?!". It's more fresh. And with fresh I mean almost two years old. This girl was my sister. I trusted her when I had been so abused in relationships and in trust that I had promised myself not to be in that situation again. I trusted her against every terrified instinct in my body. I labeled her My Last Chance. I was really sick for a while when I was around 19, I almost died - when I was getting better I became very depressed and just getting out of bed hurt like a little bitch and she would come to my door every damn day and ring it until I got up and let her in. Sometimes it took half an hour. Then she would sit with me as I gave her the Evil Eye. I credit a portion of me getting better to her. We were always together doing crazy young people stuff and having a blast. Watching the BBC version of Pride and Prejudice, eating tacos and squealing "Mr. Daaaarcyyyy!" And then something changed in our friendship and I don't know quite what or when or how or why... and now she is gone. (Well I do have some ideas.... but they are just that, ideas. Not answers.)  

After her, I haven't been able to trust my own role in a friendship and, equally, I can't trust anyone to be my friend. Trust is a big thing for me. The people who I was supposed to trust as a kid failed me pretty hard. The people I've chosen to put my trust in have failed me pretty hard. Of course, I am sure I have failed other people's trust in me. But if I ever do I explain why I did or why I acted that way. I always have reasons and to me they are legitimate. I guess I wish I could get the same explanation - why did he just disappear? Why did she stab me in the back so friggin violently I still go "whoa." when I think about (and it's not just me! I'm not being overly sensitive! My therapist was like "...that was harsh.")

WHAT DID I DO? I have no answer to this so my brain is making up its own answers. I never doubted myself as a friend until the happenings with the girl who I considered my sister. I always knew I was loyal, helpful, fun and would go the extra mile. Now I feel like I am missing something vital to make people repel from me like the wrong side of a magnet.  

Fucking magnets. How do they work?

My therapist is all "get more friends, hurrah!" but seriously. No. I went against that instinct once and I don't want to again. I don't want to get all heartbroken and pathetic again (the drunk dialing my former sister was a low point I wish to never be close to again OH MY GAWD) because I am 100% sure that people will leave me.  

Victim boohoo blahblahitycakes you are probably thinking but... GAH! I just don't want to be a victim anymore. I don't want to be hurt and abandoned and left to figure out what the fuck went wrong on my own again.

It's better to be Forever Alone willingly from the start than pushed there by someone you considered a BFF.

Day 5 of the bandwagon

Day 05 Something you hope to do in your life.

Something I hope to do in my life... There are things that I am certain I will do in my life, like have a child (Man, I want one. My uterus is constantly asking me to fill it with cells multiplying at great speeds. It's getting hard to find reasons to tell it no), that I could classify under 'hope' but to me they just seem like they are meant to happen. So I don't have to hope.

What I hope to do is an abstract thought. Hoping to do something sounds like the chances are slim and you could spend your time finding the needle in the haystack and expect the same result; disappointment. I could say I hope to get better - but then again, fuck, I have to believe that I will otherwise I will just lay down in my bed and not get up again. There is no hope, there is just do. It must happen, otherwise... What is the point. Just the thought of having to accept my 'problems' as they are now to stay this way forever is so disheartening - I don't know how I would cope with it ever being a reality.

I hope to get over my intimidation of writing a book, and... well, writing a book. I have a story in my head and I hope to one day get it in print. If people read it or not isn't important but just to see my story - something purely from my imagination - in print. Quite similar to this blog, really. I don't have many readers but man does it feel good that the internet-ether hears my side of the story and sees what I went through instead of... not, I guess heh.

I hope that my blog might serve as a beacon of light for someone going through hard times, like I am now. It sounds a bit narcissistic, perhaps, but maybe someone who feels like shit in their life will read this and feel inspired to fight for them-self as I am fighting for myself. Fighting the demons that have been there a long, long time - so long they are a part of your personality - is hard work. But I am nothing extraordinary - anything I have done, anyone can do. You can be at the bottom of the bottom and you can climb back up. It sucks sometimes. It's a long way up but where else can you go? Stay at the bottom? Suffer forever? Why? Why, when you can make it better with a little elbow grease, discipline and determination? Time will pass whether you do something about your mental state or not - so why let it pass and do nothing and think about what could have been when you can let it pass and give yourself everything you deserve, and then think about what was and how different everything is now.

I also hope I don't have too much pain in my muscles after today's work out. Slim, slim chance of that happening though. Form an orderly line for the chance to kiss my beautiful apples though.

*flex*

Day 4 of the bandwagon

Day 04 Something you have to forgive someone for.

I thought all evening and a lot of today about this. I am a pretty forgiving person. I'm really good at seeing other people's perspectives and wearing their shoes - there isn't much you can't forgive when you do that.

Although, I am very confused right now. I don't know up from down, in from out. I am so confused about how I feel about my parents. I've always been adamant in my conviction that my parents were as little to blame for my shitty childhood as I was. I am sure this cycle of abuse and fucked-uppery didn't begin with them. I've always protected them if someone - say a therapist, my husband or a friend - put forth the idea that they actually fucked me up and they are to blame because they are my parents and I was only a child. I've fought people hard to protect my parents. Or the idea of my parents.

But, fuck me, they haven't done much to protect me. This revelation has shifted my way of thinking these past two weeks dramatically. As I've written in past entries, I've been fuming with rage. I've gone so far as to throw things into walls and just yelling questions into the ether.

Why didn't they love me?
Why didn't they protect me?
Why was I witness to such horrors?
Why wasn't I allowed to be a child?
Why didn't they do anything to help me?

I described more of my childhood to my therapist this week. It was very difficult. I don't think he expected to hear the things that came out of my mouth. He said I should have been put into foster care.

Foster care.

I... have such a hard time accepting that what I tell is really the truth (a PTSD thing) so hearing him say that was difficult. I've told myself to suck it up for so long that the horrors of what was my reality have become silly to me. Silly girl, you are just whining. Your father gave you this and that, and you lived in a beautiful home. Shut up your whine hole.

I am so angry at my parents for what they showed me a relationship is because I am emotionally retarded now. I have the relationship maturity of a child. I am so afraid of intimacy that sometimes I panic when I get a hug. I'm, as with everything else (FUCK!), fighting tooth and nail to learn how to open my mouth and communicate at even the most basic level because in my house there was literally no speaking. The only noise apart from the TV and hum of the computer was my father yelling. Preferably right in my ear. When people get angry I flee for my life into another room, out of the house, into my meter thick shell. Away away away away away.

I'm pissed as hell. I am 23 years old and I am so emotionally handicapped, and I know who made me that way.

My parents.

Fuck, I am such a cliche I can barely stand to write this. But it's the truth and I write the truth. I deserve to let my truth be heard now. I've hid everything for so long. I've let my parents secrets, their marriage, their shortcomings fester in me so long that I'm starting to become them and I DO NOT WANT. I would rather die than to live their life. I am so sick of being their rubbish bin, their parent, their protectors, their rehab, their nurse, their rehab, their punching bag when. I. was. the. child! I needed parents, I needed protecting. I deserved these things! I deserved a childhood that didn't leave me so damaged that I have a list of mental diagnoses that I have to work through to live a happy life.

But I didn't get these basic things. I have to give them to myself now. It's hard work and fucking hate having to do it. And I am angry about that.

Fuck looking at the situation from their view. They never, ever looked at it from mine.

Today, they do not have my forgiveness.

(Guilt. Sorry mum. Sorry dad. I wish I was stronger for you)

Day 3 of the bandwagon

Day 03 Something you have to forgive yourself for

I don't really believe in regrets, so there isn't much that I feel bad about in my past. A couple things bring a sting to my heart though.

When my father was sick he had to get chemo. He didn't want anyone to go with him, much rather bringing his favourite books with him. I had borrowed a book from him - The Hitchhiker's Guide - and he had forgotten about it. He asked me if I knew where it was and I knew very well I had it but I said I didn't know. I'm pretty sure that would have been the last book he would have read in life. And I kept that from him. I've never even read it. It's on my bookshelf now, and everyday I see it and I think about what a compete jackass I was. What the hell was I thinking? I can't bring myself to read it, even though I want to very much. It feels like a jinxed book now. I've tried a couple times but it's only ended in tears and only a page or two read.

It's strange what I feel guilty about. When he was sick I barely went to visit him because I was scared. Scared of his mortality, scared of him vomitting infront of me from the chemo, scared of how I feel seeing him sick. I have no problem forgiving myself for that, it's never been an issue to me. I was scared. I get that. But I can't forgive myself for this book. I feel like I don't deserve that forgiveness. Who does that to someone with cancer? Or maybe I do actually feel guilty for more things concerning his illness and I'm projecting all those feelings on to this rather silly thing. I don't know.

The second thing that I feel guilty and stingy about I've already covered in this blawwwwg. My difficulties with sex. I'm so ashamed thinking of how sexual I could be a few years ago compared to now when I even have to turn away from a movie if there is a sex scene being shown. I'm so ashamed to think about how it's affected my marriage. I'm so ashamed to think about how it affects my husband, how unhappy it makes him. I'm ashamed how it makes me less of a wife, a woman, a person. I'm so ashamed that my trauma concerning sex is so fucked up that not one therapist has even tried to help me with it. I don't know how to forgive myself for this. I know it's not my fault. I didn't ask for this. But, as usual, I hold myself to an impossible standard.

To my husband; I am so, so, so sorry. If I could snap my fingers and be amazing at spreading my legs I would for you. You are the only reason I even try to face this. I'm sorry.

Searching for people like me (or: Forever Alone!)

I don't know many people like me. Until a few weeks ago I didn't think there was anyone with a similar set of issues to mine. Then suddenly people started popping up. Pop pop pop poppity pop. They made me feel giddy. High. I became so eager to talk to them, to relate, to know their perspective that I overwhelmed and probably frightened them. I was acutely excited. Totez sry, lulllzz etc.

I know the following is a roll-eye worthy bunch of cliches but I'm nothing if not honest. So.

I've always felt seperate from everyone else. So much older than everyone because I've experienced (hideous, mind melting, crotch kicking) trauma, but still a baby because my brain is stuck in the (hideous, mind melting, crotch kicking, eye gouging) trauma. I've felt seperate from people my age because, goddamn! Do I have issues or what!? They all seem so happy and care-free. Adventurous and alive. Most of the time I've been cowering under my blanket, quite busy even if I wasn't going out, thanks.

Buuuut I can't escape the fact that I was busy being pelted with crapstorms and cases of the boo-hoos, instead of busy with school, friends and I dunno... what do kids do these days? Smoke week? Play SNES? Skip through fields of flowers hand in hand with their BFFs and special sexy friends? Go to bars and give blowies to people in bathroom stalls? The same thing we do every night, Pinkie, try to take over the world?

I don't know what people do! I'm an anti-social hermitty freak! I stay inside and read about life in books or blogs. I get my social interraction from my husband, from forums and msn (where I talk to people I met on forums, not IRL). I get my sense of adventure and thrills by tweeting famous people I like (Stephen Fry is dreamy), and picking up my cat when she is in a bad mood and may just take a swing at my face.

My hermit-like existence and my emetophobia is my own personal evolutionary case of Which came first? Chicken or the egg? Was I always a bit reclusive and lone-wolfy or did I become so because of my emetophobia? I was always very determined that I'm just not that sociable. Therapy has me, however, pulling my hair and dramatically flailing on the floor screaming "Oh Em Gee who am I?".

I have defined myself with many words and quite suddenly a great chunk of those words have been wittled away through my therapy as they were only responses to my emetophobia, my father's alcoholism and crappy family dynamics. What am I left with? Who am I left with? I don't like this feeling. I liked it better when upon command I could list ten things that I Most Certainly Am. Now I have trouble coming up with just one.

Uhh. I... Most Certainly got married so I am a wife.

Oh, God. If I don't watch out I will become one of those people who define themselves through their relationships with other people. I am a wife/daughter/cat-mama/friend, therefore I am.

Anyway, what I was aiming at with this blog was to say: Homies out there who relate, please let yourselves be known to me. We can relate and be awesome together.

(And I promise I've learned my lesson about overwhelming people)

  

I'm cured!!! (Sort of) (haha) (not really)

I went to my bi-weekly therapy appointment last Friday. As usual my head has been spinning a mile a minute afterwards with emotions and little flashes of painful memories. We begun our conversation with discussing my emetophobia - apparently I am quite close to being rid of it. I've definitely felt that it's under my control, rather than the other way round. I have my hard days with the big challenges (like the airport one) but I don't have panic attacks every night anymore. It's unreal just typing that. Just a few short months ago I had horrid panic attacks each night until I fell asleep out of pure exhaustion. Unreal.

We moved on to... more difficult things. Things that I've been able to largely ignore for a long time thanks to my emetophobia taking up so much of my brain power. But now that my emetophobia is going bye-bye more and more, I can deny these things less and less. I've touched upon the subjects here on my blog, and it seems to have sparked a new crapstorm within me. And it's the most cliche kind so it makes it really, really hard not to roll my eyes at myself. But perhaps that is another form of my denial. It wasn't so bad, get over yourself. Or become a stripper, you loser.

My therapist asked me to go to an al-anon meeting. A meeting for family of alcoholics. To that I simply replied "My father is dead, he isn't an alcoholic anymore", and my therapist sort of smirked and said that I am still here, his death hasn't erased any of my past. He suggested that maybe his death has made me free of The Family Secret that I held on to so tightly.

No.

I didn't tell people my father was an alcoholic. I don't know if people would believe it. He had a very prestigious, well paying job that he never took one sick day from (until he got cancer, that is). We were all provided for and we lived in a enormous apartment in the middle of our city. He only smelled of alcohol on the weekends. I never told anyone how much he drank. I never told anyone how angry and violent he got when he was drunk. I never told anyone how scared I was. I never told anyone the reason why I didn't sleep at night.

And I still don't want to. I feel like I'm spitting on the memory of my father by telling this particular truth. I feel like I'm betraying my family. Why do I bother feeling this way? They've betrayed me.

This weekend I was so angry. Furious. Why don't my parents love me?! Why, why, why, why, why did they not do more for me? Try harder? Why was I left to fend for myself when everyone else (my siblings, friends, friggin strangers) they would go out of their way for. Why was I left out? And, in my mother's case, I still am. I cannot for the life of me get attention from her. I've never really reached out to her - due to the guilt, due to feeling like taking care of their feelings was my responsibility etc - but she's always asked me to, and I always assumed that if I ever did she would take super duper awesome amazing care of me.

No.

I was at my lowest in my autumn depression. I was crying left and right, becoming very desperate for it to just stop. I called her. I sobbed so hard I couldn't speak. She asked me to come over for "some tea and a chat", and I went. I arrived, got a hug, a cup of tea and then spent the following two hours listening to how much her job sucks. All the while I felt like I was herp derping with my face out of desperate desperation mingled with why are you talking? What about me, ma?! 

And that feeling stuck in me, internet. What about me? Hello? Is this thing on? 1-2-1-2 testing. Hello?

This weekend I realized: Oh, It's not the microphone. It's you.

I've cried out for help, as they say, many times. Perhaps not always in words. Blasting the same song that I felt depicted exactly what I was feeling over and over (once I actually blasted on repeat, while shouting the lyrics, For You by Staind), hoping someone would hear it, or dressing in all black with torn up pants because that's like, totally how I felt inside omgz, or not going to school, or not getting out of bed, or not eating, or eating all the time, or accidentally revealing wounds that I had 'I fell down the stairs' and 'I walked into a cupboard! I swear!' type explanations for. But they weren't capable of dealing with me.

Why. 

In which my PTSD is explored.

I'm laughing. Having a moment with teh lulz. I thought I would write something about PTSD today and I literally cannot remember what I've written about it before, I've blocked it out. My brain is so effective! It won't even let me keep memories of writing about memories. Sometimes I feel like I'm being trolled by my own brain, and it's just trying to make me look stupid. Or maybe I am just stupid. Trollolol.

I have two seperate PTSD 'instances'. I call them PTSD#1 and PTSD#2. I don't talk about PTSD#1, but I have been working on PTSD#2.

PTSD#2 is the 'easy' one, the one most therapists can help with, I am sure. When I have asked them (and I've had a few) about PTSD#1 they will not touch it and say it requires training they don't have. So I don't talk about it, because it even scares therapists (and that scares me). I don't know if it can be fixed, or by whom.

I just spent an hour trying to describe PTSD#2 but it was all crap and sounded ridiculous so I got backspace happy and wrote this instead. How's the weather where you are? Spring yet? Denialdenialdenialdenialdenialdenial! Repress that shit. Hurrah! I am cured.

This is much harder than I thought it would be. I can speak about it, I can tell the PTSD#2 story - but why can't I write it? Hmm. Then again, when I really think about it, I don't think I speak about it very well either. Basically I think I would say something like "My dad was very angry. He yelled a lot. He drank alot. After mum moved out I had to take care of him. And he drank more. It was not a great time."  

What? Fuck. Suddenly there are tears. This is all so very confused by the fact that when my dad died three years ago he had changed from The Man Who Gave Me PTSD (though it is unfair to pin it all on him) and we were good friends, and hung out quite often. But then he died. And for some reason the only thing I can think about right now is the way he used to chew his food and drink his milk while reading Donald Duck comics at dinner time.  

I'm not angry at him. At least, I don't think I'm angry. I just feel guilty. I'm guilty because I wasn't stronger and couldn't survive those 7 years without making myself sick and making that my dad's fault.

I'm guilty because who I'm actually angry with right now is my mother, because she didn't save me, because I wasn't protected. I'm sorry, mum, I really am. It makes me want to weep with guilt when I think bad things about my family. But the truth is - please, forgive me - nobody fucking protected me and I was too young - TOO YOUNG - to be unprotected. To witness all the things I did. To shoulder all I did. And I'm sick now and I'm struggling to get better. And I'm sorry but it's all my family's fault, because none of you protected me and all I ever did was try to protect you (and I still do.). And now I'm sick and in a situation where nobody can protect me, because all those things happened and nobody protected me when I could have been. 

The skin of my emotions is raw and torn and the medicine stings worse than the wound.

I guess I am angry. My mother could run away to her new life and ask me to come with her all she wanted, but how was I to leave my alcoholic, broken father who needed me? My siblings - oh please, forgive me - didn't see me. They were deaf, dumb and blind while I stayed up to make sure my dad didn't set the house on fire when he fell into an alcohol induced stupor with a cigarette in his hand.

I guess I am angry. But there is more of my guilt than my anger.

I am so sorry for writing what I just did. I am so, so sorry. I wish I had the strength to protect every single one of you forever.

I know they all have a story too. A story when they were hurt, when I disappointed them, when I failed them. We all have stories about how we were failed by eachother. I guess this is just me documenting mine. And I'm really, really sorry about that.

Crapstorm Recovery

As I recover from the crapstorm that drove me to two therapists and to the bottle (the pepsi kind) I feel increasingly afraid of actually doing what I've been working for. You know... like, living.

It's not that I haven't lived so far, or like all my times have been crap and dark - because they haven't - it's just that I've always carried around a dark cloud that has tinged every blessed day of my life. I'm getting ready to move on to a new life where every good event won't be slightly in shadow or have me thinking "I can think of a thousand ways this pisses me off/makes me sad/reminds me of that one depressing time/will make later suck/may make me throw up GOOD GOD WHAT I AM DOING HERE fleeeeee!".

What's it like not being weighed down by a million mind-bricks? What's it like to allow yourself to really enjoy moments? What's it like to live without what-ifs? I have no idea. I don't remember if I ever have. I didn't think I was capable. Now I know I'm capable. Maybe not as capable to be as care-free as some, but hell - any improvement is very welcome. Also, I find those really happy-go-lucky people annoying to the extreme. I bet they all crap fairy dust and pee champagne. I just crap and pee the regular things. I'm cool with that, because I can act like a monkey and throw my regular crap at those people and bring them back down to earth. Fuckers.

Sometimes I think about all the things I want to do but haven't been able to because of my emetophobia and general fear of pleasure. Like bike really, really fast without being afraid I'll become so winded I'll throw up. Or go to dinner at someone else's house and not be paranoid and checking on their hygiene. Or just simply go for a walk in the winter and end up at a cafe and enjoy myself without fear of the noro virus. Sometimes I try to think about freedom and fail because emetophobia is a strong monster that can block you even from fantasies. Sometimes I'm so sick of the entire therapy shit that I rebel against myself and spend the entire weekend in bed rejecting the company of everyone (including, shock and disgust, my cats). It's all so freaking exhausting but ever since my first taste of what life without a thousand mind-bricks could be I haven't doubted it will be worth it.

 But still, the freedom frightens me. Being free from fear frightens me. Where will I focus all my energy? Will I find other bad habits? What are good habits?

Who am I without all this?

Sometimes I forget

I talk a big talk about my recovery from emetophobia and PTSD and all the what-have-yous that I've been labeled with. I try to feel positive and upbeat and "omgz, I can sooo totally do this. No problems." But then I get trolled by my own emotions and I start feeling really low. All the while my emotions are all " problem?". Thanks, guys! Way to stick it to the man.


Yeah, it's a problem. Once you fall it's hard to get the motivation back. Once I feel like all the hard work I've done has not made a lick of difference I want to rebel and say FUCK this. But then I tell myself to suck it up and get on with it. There is no turning back. There is nothing to turn back to. What is the life of an emetophobe? It only consists of fear and OCD-like behaviour. The life I am pawing at now has intense highs of freedom and intense helium-like rushes of joy. I have to have more of it.

In these moments, the moments when I am trolling myself, I forget where I started and how far I've come. I look and I drown in the distance I yet have to go, and I forget that a few months ago I couldn't even eat an egg. I forget where I started, or rather... I completely disregard where I started because in my eyes the only starting point that is deserving of being viewed as a starting point is where everyone else is with their non-emetophobia. But then I remember that that is my goal, and I am much closer to it than I used to be.

That's when I get a rush. I get a rush of REAL control over my life, not the fake kind that I strived to feel with my emetophobia. I, all by myself, have started taking back the reigns to my life. I do what I want, when I want. Nobody and nothing will keep me back. Especially not myself and the hiccup I created in my mind.

I like these rushes - control, joy and freedom - it makes me feel alive.

I think along the bumps in my life I forgot I was alive. I like feeling alive.

Alive.

(I really like that word)

(It's not dead like other things)

(Like... my father, my sex drive, the scale after it showed me I gained weight for no flipping good reason)

(I only have two resurrection potions to use. Obviously I can't keep being fat so the scale has to come alive again to make sure I keep losing weight)

(and my husband really likes sex so I guess I'll pour the potion on my giney.)

(Sorry dad! I'm sure you're having a blast doing cartwheels up in space though so no hard feelings, right?)