My name is Vanessa and this is my blog. I have struggled with anorexia for 20 years and self-injury for more than 30 years. It is my hope that many of the things I have written about here will be things you can relate to.

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Read an excerpt from my book, Comes the Darkness, Comes the Light, here.

Check out my other website here.

I am constantly looking for scientific answers to justify what I believe to be true with regards to both self-injury and eating disorders. To an outsider, these disorders are hard to understand, but for the sufferer, it rarely comes as a surprise.

I believe two things: (1) These disorders have a biological/genetic connection and (2) there are factors that contribute to forcing them to manifest. If these factors weren't present, it's very possible these disorders could be avoided, regardless of the genetic predisposition.

In a Time magazine article today, http://www.time.com/time/health/article/0,8599,1904999,00.html, the link between anorexia in girls and autism or Asperger's in boys may be evident. How? These conditions share a common set of traits: rigidity in thinking, an intense focus on detail, a resistance to change and a narrow mental focus. "There is evidence that the "repetitive thoughts and behaviors, rigid routines and rituals and perfectionism" that characterize both autism and anorexia may be traced to the same regions in the brain."

What if these disorders were different because of gender? "It's possible, she [Janet Treasure]says, that the same genetic predisposition for autism and anorexia may be expressed differently depending on gender."

Think about it.

It makes sense that young women would be obsessed with physical appearance and young boys would be obsessed with things like cars or trains.

"About 15 times as many boys are given a diagnosis of Asperger's syndrome as are girls, and nearly 10 times as many girls develop anorexia as boys. It's easy to see how an outsized sense of perfectionism in a female might lead to an unhealthy obsession with thinness — given society's preoccupation with physical appearance — while a male might end up obsessing about cars or trains, which is typical in autistic boys. "The reason [Asperger's] is usually diagnosed less often in females may be because it takes a different form — anorexia may be just one of the forms," says Baron-Cohen."


"Researchers may be able to pinpoint specific early risk factors to help identify kids who are vulnerable to developing anorexia — much the same way specialists can now recognize signs of autism as early as 12 months."

Isn't that amazing? Think about what this means!! What if there were a set of "triggers" that could be identified and looked for? What if there was early-intervention and anorexia was a disorder that could be avoided?

Imagine what a life-changing thing this would be!

I think of this like shingles. Shingles is caused by the same virus as chicken pox. Once you have chicken pox, this virus stays in your body, dormant. In later years, something like a highly-stressful situation can cause this virus to become active. Minimizing stress minimizes ones chances of having a shingles outbreak.

I find studies like this very exciting. It helps to validate what I've felt all my life: I am different than others because of the way I respond to my environment, but I also believe that some of the messages I was given as a small child helped to cement some of my negative thinking that made something like an eating disorder almost inevitable.

This is something to think about and consider.

I think as a world we have always known that words had power, but science is one step closer to proving how much.

tags: anorexia, autism, emotional health, genetic connection, recovery, treatment, triggers

The big issues in life are things I can handle. Sure, they are stressful, but few are rarely a surprise.

It's the little things that get me.

For example, talking to someone and thinking you're making some headway only to realize that you are the only one trying to do so.

Here's a from a conversation I had in Baltimore, Maryland, Friday night. Now, keep in mind I'd been up for 24 hours and was exhausted. All I wanted was a hotel room that was non-smoking.

The sign said: "After hours, press bell for service".

I did and after a few minutes, an old man comes from the back room.

"Yes?"

"I was looking for a bed tonight and wondered what your rates were."

"A bed? What kind of bed?"

"Well, I'd like a room with two double-beds if you have that, or a king-sized bed is fine as long as it's non-smoking."

He stared at me.

I looked at my watch: 1:38 a.m. I had been in heels and panty hose for more than 18 hours and wanted nothing more than to sleep.

He was still staring at me.

"What do you mean non-smoking?"

"I'm allergic to cigarette smoke so I need a room where no one has smoked... if you have it."

"Can't say if the room is non-smoking or not. Can't say at all what them people does in the room after I give it to 'em."

I was speechless, but my car was still running outside, I was still tired, so I continued.

"How much is a room?"

"$69.99 before taxes."

"That will be fine. Can I see the room first please?"

He stared at me and started to smile.

"Can't show you somethin' I don't have."

"Excuse me?"

"Ain't got any rooms tonight smokin' or otherwise."

"Nothing? Not even one free bed?"

"Nope. Sold out hours ago. You might try a few miles down the road though. Sometimes they have rooms."

Truly speechless and realizing I'd wasted a good ten minutes on NOTHING, I left.

It was another agonizing twenty miles before I could bring myself to stop again. (By then the anger-fueled adrenaline was gone.)

Why in the world this guy couldn't tell me he was already sold out when I walked in the door was a complete mystery to me.

On any other occassion, I might not have been as tired as I was, but Friday was one of those days when the hours just keep passing and passing and passing and before you know it, it's a new day and you're still in the clothes you put on hours earlier.

I hadn't planned on wearing my dress clothes for almost 24 hours, but it turned out that way and I can't say it helped my mood any.

Stress? What stress?

Easy things shouldn't be hard and when they are, unnecessarily so, it pushes me to the edge because I don't know how to handle it.

I couldn't yell at the guy. He was lonely and probably glad to have someone to talk to. But I needed a place to crash and instead of helping me facilitate that process, he extended my quest.

I shouldn't let things like this get to me, but I do.

Managing stress is a skill I continue to work on. I may not be able to control what happens, but I can control how I respond to it.

tags: anxiety, frustration, mis-communication, stress management

I LOVED the outcome of the Kentucky Derby this weekend! How extraordinary it must have been to have everyone's eyes elsewhere so that horse and rider could just "enjoy the ride" without the media pressure.

All of the newspapers on Sunday rated each horse and rider as a team and offered odds as to their chance of winning. USA Today said, to those who were considered betting on "Mine That Bird" to win, that at odds of 50-1, people should "save their money."

And perhaps in so doing, "Mine That Bird" and his rider felt no pressure to come barreling out of the gate. By choosing their path carefully, they were able to navigate the course smoothly and relatively slowly. The race on Sunday was not a speed race. Instead, had it not been for the last burst of speed "Mine That Bird" put forth, this would have been "the slowest Triple Crown figure ever."

And yet, this horse set a new record. "According to the charts in the Kentucky Derby media guide, Mine That Bird is the first Derby winner to pass 18 horses in the final half-mile."

To say that this horse and rider were underestimated is an understatement!

This is a true tortoise and hare tale. For all of the spotlight placed on some of the other contenders this weekend, very little mention was ever made of "Mine That Bird". He was seen as the underdog by professionals in the field, trained to see potential where others may not, managed to (excuse the pun) fly completely under their radar.

The right horse won this race.

He wasn't the most beautiful horse.

He may not have had the breeding that some of the others did.

But in the end, he was the fastest and blazed a new trail into the history books.

Stories like this should inspire us.

Just because others, even those perceived as "experts", don't recognize potential, doesn't mean it doesn't exist.

How many times have we as human beings written someone off because of what we don't see?

Maybe it's our eyes that are the problem, and not the other way around.

I would like to think that "Mine That Bird" has a feeling of assurance now. Even if he never races again, everyone will remember what he did. (Especially those who ignored the betting odds!) There had to be a part of him that knew what he had within and finally the world knows it too.

I imagine too the jockey may have been looked down upon at some level for riding a horse no one believed could win the Derby.

But in the end, he alone stood in the winner's circle.

If each person knows what they have and how spectacular that is, it won't matter what other people see or don't see.

In end, when the time is right, the gift reveals itself, and like it was on Sunday, the whole world will be in awe.

tags: achievement, dreams, faith, obstacles, potential

When I think of my mind, I imagine it to be a huge filing cabinet. When I'm thinking about something, I literally imagine a part of myself walking up and down these huge halls pulling out files, scanning them fo relevance, and then either taking them to look at further, or putting them back and continuing the search.

When I was small, one of the "myths" that went around school was that a person could control what they dreamed about by thinking about one thing straight until they fall asleep.

I cannot tell you how many times in my life I have tested this theory.

When my grandma died, I mentally returned to her house and tried to summon every image, smell, texture and memory I had of her.

True to form, more often than not, she appeared in some form or fashion in my dreams.

When I got divorced, the same was true. Not wanting to focus on the negative, I tried to recall the good times, the times before the tears and angry words.

Some times it worked, but more often than not, it didn't.

In hindsight, I think the wounds were too fresh, the emotions too raw and the proximity to the situation, stiffling.

This week I have tried to test this myth yet again.

Even though on a rational level I know my dog is gone, it really feels like he's just been away at the vet, or staying with a neighbor.

My heart hasn't really been able to accept what my mind has known all along.

What if I could feel my dog in my arms just one more time, in my dreams, and let him go?

It took me a week, but it finally worked.

And last night, he was there, healthy and happy, wriggling in my arms.

In my dreams, I talk to myself a lot. And I remember thinking, "he's here! In my arms! Warm and safe."

The mind is an amazing thing. When I trip in my dreams, I imagine I jerk in real life in response to an object that doesn't exist, but that I'm sure is out to hurt me.

When I fall in my dreams, I can feel myself falling through space, clawing for something solid to break my fall.

I have woken up crying before because in my dreams, someone has died and it is so real, that I am left with no choice but to call and hear their voice just to reassure myself that it was only a dream.

And last night, I feel like my heart finally said good-bye to my dog. He was in my arms, heavy with life, and I was able to let him go.

When I woke up this morning, I felt differently than I have all week. I'm sad, yes, but I feel complete in some way that I had "one more minute" with him.

Last night, my memories of Connor created a new file in my mind. And one day, if I ever need to remember something about him, it's all there, waiting for me to pull it back out again.

Loss of any kind is difficult, but dreams make it a little easier because in them, things and people don't seem that far away.

My heart has healed a little...and it's good.

tags: healng, loss, memories, recovery

At 9:52 tonight my dog's heart stopped.

He was nearly 15.

He was proof that there was a God, that I was never alone, and that no matter what, I could be loved unconditionally.

It's funny how you think you're prepared for something like this.

As dogs age, people say things like, "wow, he's had a really long life. Appreciate him while he's here."

Duh.

Connor was my child.

Only another dog lover could appreciate what that means.

Connor saw me through graduate school, my entire marriage, a divorce, an eating disorder and cancer.

He was there for me when no one else was.

And now he's wrapped in a blanket in a freezer.

I want to throw up.

Where does all of this sorrow go? What do I do with all of this hurt? This loss?

For probably the last time, my ex-husband and I found comfort in each others arms. Connor was our last real connection, so in many ways, this feels like a double-death.

I know why people drink. Take pills.

Cut.

Because what's on the inside is so painful that perhaps if it brought to the surface and exposed, some of its power will lessen.

At one point I could bleed my pain away.

But tonight I am left to hold it. To feel it. To let it overtake me.

To anyone who says, "it was only a dog", I say screw you.

Connor was better than most people.

He loved with his full heart, held nothing back, wanted nothing in return and died hearing over and over again how much he was loved.

Tonight, he's in a better place.

I envision him bounding around Rainbow Ridge with his other canine friends that have gone before him, surrounded by treats and his favorite toys.

To think of him in a freezer, wrapped in a blanket, is something I cannot stand.

Connor was my gift from God.

He was an angel on earth, and tonight, he finally got his wings.

tags: cutting, death, emotional distress, self-injury, unconditional love

Although I enjoy visiting my mother, I don't enjoy going to her house. Her house is filled with things from my past, painful things, and being there is a stark reminder of how my life used to be.

The furniture of my childhood is still there. The same dishes. The same smell in the closets.

My bed.

The same one I used to lie on and cry myself to sleep after being told by my father how worthless I was and what a disappointment I was...again.

The same one I used to bang my head against each night until I passed out.

The same one I used to crawl into after hours of sit-ups and push-ups as I sought to sculpt a body that I envisioned as being "perfect".

The same one I curled up on after I'd injured, again, and swore to myself that THIS would be the last time.

The same one my ex-husband and I used to sleep on when we'd visit, facing each other and whispering quietly in the darkness.

Such a beautiful bed.

But what sorrows it has seen.

It had been three years since I'd slept on that bed before this weekend.

The last time I was there, I'd injured and I can remember craddling my arm and crying out of fear, desperation and regret.

But this weekend was the first time in my life that I'd laid on that bed a whole person. I hadn't been sent to my room as a punishment. I hadn't been yelled at or told I was a failure. I wasn't in the throes of an eating disorder and I hadn't injured.

For the first time ever, my bed wasn't an escape.

It was a bed.

It's hard not to feel the power of such a history.

Poe called it sentience. He believed that inanimate objects could absorb the feelings of those around it.

I believe in that.

If a terrible crime is committed in a place, that place is forever tainted because of the horrors it was exposed to.

My bed too is tainted.

But I hope that by finally being able to lie on it as a "clean" person, I helped to redeem it a little bit.

I had avoided returning to my mother's house for years.

I insisted I would never go back...couldn't go back...couldn't walk into the lion's den and face the past that lived there.

But ultimately my mother's present happiness was stronger than my past sorrow, so I went.

In a way this was a victory.

When I think of how many things have happened in and around my bed (I've had it since I was 9), it's hard not to want to just throw it out and start all over again with something new and unscared.

But I cannot deny the past.

I must embrace it.

tags: confronting the past, cutting, emotional abuse, growth, healing, scars, self-injury

I'm not a patient person. I cannot say for sure if this is part of my make-up or a result of living in a family where time was constantly of the essence.

My dad used to love to snap his fingers or clap his hands. This was a way of getting my brothers and I (his charges) to hurry up.

"Chop! Chop!"

"Let's go! Go! Go!"

The WORST thing you could do was try to hurry and then forget something.

"You what? How could possibly have forgotten ____________? Do I have to do everything for you? It's not enough that I have to do __________, __________ AND ___________, but now I have to worry about your ___________ too? Come on!"

I learned early in life to hurry. Patience was for the weak. If you were truly capable, time bent to your will, not the other way around.

If there was a line moving too slow, move.

If there was someone you were talking to that couldn't help you (quick enough) then ask for a supervisor.

No rarely meant no if you expressed a sense of urgency.

"I know your policy says __________, but I am in a hurry and really need it right away. Is there anyone I can speak to about this?"

I saw this over and over again in my life and believed that if I was good enough, I too could seemingly control time and its outcome.

I cannot tell you how much of my self-injury was related to impatience.

It seemed like the more I wanted things to happen, the more time or other people's agendas seemed to get in the way.

Eventually things DID happen, but it rarely on my time scale and this was a constant source of frustration for me.

My father never seemed to have to wait for anyone or anything, so why did I?

What was it about me that didn't have the same pull or influence?

In my mind, this was just another in a long list of indicators that I wasn't "good enough".

But as I've gotten older, time has taken on a new meaning and I'm learning that just because something doesn't happen right now, doesn't mean it won't.

This weekend I was watching a show on artists who had "one hit wonders". These were people who had spent years and years waiting for that one "big hit" to make them famous.

In most instances, their "big hit" was a seeming mistake.

It wasn't planned. It wasn't considered their best work.

But something about the song resonated with people and that's what made it a hit.

There were many examples of songs that had all but died when they were released, "dismal failures" by professional standards, and then an artist twenty years later would sample the song or use it in a movie, and then overnight, the artist was famous and their song, a legend.

How many of us would feel better if we knew that something wonderful would happen...twenty years in the future?

Would we still be impatient or would that knowledge be enough to put our minds at ease?

I've always believed I was going to die young and that's why I have felt a tremendous amount of urgency in my life.

I never believed I had as much time as everyone else to do all that I wanted to do.

But this summer I will be 38 and that is a huge surprise to me. I never would have imagined that I would live this long.

When I look back on all the things I've done, places I've been too and things I've seen, I realize that my urgency on many levels has served me well.

But it has also worked against me.

I have been in such a hurry to "do", that I have not had much time to "be".

And that's a shame.

I believe everyone wants to leave a legacy.

I do.

When I die I want to leave my footprints in this world and say to those left behind that I was here and that I tried to make my time count for something.

But after seeing the show on "one hit wonders" this weekend, I can see that my legacy may still be to come.

I hope I am here to see it happen, but if I'm not, that doesn't mean it never will.

And that in some ways, is reassuring even if it's frustrating because it's not soon enough.

tags: cutting, patience, perception, self-injury, time

On the news this week there was a story about a young girl that had been bitten in the face by an alligator. The jaws clamped down literally over one of her eyes and down to her cheekbone. But in looking at her, her scars are minimal. Extraordinary!

The interviewer was asking her about her scars and asked if she was relieved that they were almost totally non-existent and the young lady said no, the if anything, she was sad they were faded away because it meant that her opportunities to educate others about what had happened to her was becoming less and less.

This is an interesting point.

As the months pass by, my scars too have faded. If I am standing under hot water or something they become clear, but on a regular day, they aren't nearly as obvious as they used to be.

I've never obsessed about my scars really. I made them and have embraced them as part of who I am.

But now that they are fading away, who I am is slowly changing.

In the past, people asked me about them.

But it's been months since that has happened.

I used to be self-conscious about the shirts I wore.

Now I wear pretty much what I like.

I didn't ever expect there to be a time when self-injury wasn't a part of my life, so imagine my surprise to find out that the scars I always knew would be there, are over time, disappearing.

I can't say I'm sad about this fact but it is odd to look down at my arms and not have scars be the first thing I see.

I understand what the young girl meant about educating others. When people saw her scars, because they were in such a unique position, they asked her what happened and that segwayed into an educational opportunity.

But now the segway doesn't exist and to just randomly come out with her story seems untimely.

I feel the same way.

Without my scars being evident, people don't know anything used to be wrong and therefore don't ask.

As time passes, that part of my life becomes further and further something I'm removed from and I don't talk about it as often as I once did.

In the past, I felt fractured because I was living a lie and couldn't tell the world my secret.

But now I feel once again like I am two people: Vanessa as a self-injurer and Vanessa without it.

It's weird. After three years of not injuring I am continuing to learn about myself and re-define who I am.

The old Vanessa is faded, but not totally gone.

That's a good thing. The scars showed where I'd been but to have them fading shows how far I've come.

tags: cutting, emotional health, recovery, scars, self-injury, sense of self

I just finished Robert Goolrick's memoir, "The End Of The World As We Know It". In it, he details his struggles with alcohol abuse and his use of cutting to try and deal with the sexual molestation he suffered as a child at the hands of his father.

What struck me the most about his recounting of his cutting episodes was this comment: "Cutting was affection".

I've never thought about it like that before, but how true.

In many ways, cutting was a form of self-love for me. I loved myself enough to hurt so that others no longer had that privilege.

I loved myself to take care of myself after the episode was over.

And I loved myself enough to believe it when I said, "this is the last time."

And it wasn't.

This book did a fantastic job of putting into words so many of the things I felt about cutting and just couldn't articulate.

It takes something ugly and misunderstood and turns it into something tangible, real and justifiable.

It's never easy to read about someone else's pain, but when it helps you to understand a little bit of your own, then I think it's a good thing.

tags: cutting, emotional healing, physical abuse, self-awarenss, self-injury, sexual abuse

It's amazing how things can happen sometimes. You know, the best laid plans and all of that...

Spring Break 2009. No world travel. No winning the lottery. Oh no. For myself, this last week brought with it a trip to Boston and Influenza type A. It's funny how we always say we have the flu when we feel bad. But now that I've REALLY had the flu, nothing, and I mean nothing, can compare to how quickly I became sick and how sick I became.

One minute I'm fine and then less than four hours later, I'm in a fetal position with a fever of 103 and hallucinating.

Seriously.

I don't think I could have felt worse if I'd been hit by a truck.

OK. Maybe a little bit worse.

But not much.

When I went in to the doctors office they stuck two swabs up my nose. They tested positive for influenza immediately.

"Congratulations", the doctor said, "you hit the big one. You feel horrible now, but give yourself five days or so and you should be feeling better."

Bundling myself back up, I headed out the door back to bed where I lived for the next several days.

Experiences like this teach me several things.

One, I really do have little control over the things in my life. Had I known for one second what was coming for me over the holiday, I would have never planned to travel so far away from home.

Two, when you feel bad, home is the ONLY place you want to be. Period.

Three, things that most of the time I think "can't wait", all of a sudden do when something like this happens.

Four, my body has all the tools it needs to heal itself given the right set of circumstances.

Five, time loses its meaning and importance when you are really sick.

Six, everyone knows what it's like to feel bad and are sensitive to that fact. I am amazed at the kindness of others when I look like death warmed over.

And finally, it's true what they say about not appreciating your health until you don't have it. I didn't have it this week and missed it terribly. But now that I'm feeling back to old self again, I find myself wanting to treat my body a little better.

It's been almost a week now since I've had a soft drink.

A small thing for sure, but a big step for me.

tags: control issues, health, illness, recovery

I sold my wedding rings today.

It's been more than three years since my divorce so it was time.

But I'm sad anyway.

When I was married and things got really tense, my ex and I used to joke about our rings being sent to "Mount Doom from "The Hobbit". We shared a vision of throwing the rings into a well of fire and letting them forever blend together.

Like our hearts.

Neither of us realized that our long-standing joke would become today's reality.

When I got divorced, I had the rings cleaned and put into a vault.

Until today, I hadn't ever had mine on my finger again.

But before I handed it over, I put it on and stared at my hand, wondering why such a beautiful ring no longer belonged there and knowing 150% that the man that had originally put it there, was no longer mine to mourn.

Today a piece of heart healed a little.

There is never a chance of reconciliation and without the rings, no chance of ever "going back" to the way things were.

But I'm sad anyway.

When I got married, it was forever.

Or so I thought.

Selling my rings today is my taking full ownership of the biggest failure of my life.

Sixteen years is a long time to be with someone.

Three years is an even longer time to be without them.

Tonight, I envision our rings melting together to create something more beautiful than we were able to create as a couple.

I hope that whatever our failed love creates in the fire is strong enough to bind someone else's heart with another, forever.

tags: emotional health, failed relationships, healing, moving on, past, regrets

I read a beautiful sentence this week in a book. It was talking about memories and how time is more destructive to memories than a house fire because until a fire that destroys the memories in an instant, time allows part of the memory to remain and other parts to slowly fade into darkness.

I know what this means.

For almost twenty years I have had boxes in storage. This weekend, I emptied the storage unit and so now my garage is piled with boxes of memories and "things I couldn't live without", waiting for me to explore them once again.

I know when I packed these boxes my life was headed in a new and exciting direction: I was moving out of the house, into the dorms in college, and knew I couldn't take everything with me.

I vowed, once I graduated, to "go through" the boxes and throw out what I didn't need.

The problem?

Two hours after graduation from college I was headed south, with my husband-to-be and couldn't be bothered with the boxes.

So, "my treasures" found themselves in another storage unit, sealed tight until the day I could go through them.

And now, almost twenty years later, the time to do just that has finally come.

Old yearbooks.

Greeting cards from loved ones now gone from this life.

Boxes and boxes of photographs, capturing every smile, every "first date" and every beautiful flower or mountain lake I have been able to capture through my camera lens.

What has taken me years to accumulate and drag around will surely take me weeks to pare down.

I'm not sure where the time has gone.

I look at the boxes and the edges of things peeking through them and remember where I was in my life when they were put together.

How many things, and people, have come...and gone.

I must pace myself.

There are things in these boxes that are old triggers laying in wait.

But I am stronger now.

Ready to face them fearlessly, saving them or destroying them forever.

But I will remain.

There have been many times in my life when I wasn't sure this would be the case, but today, facing towers of boxes with my name on them, I know I am ready.

I don't know where the time went, but I know where I have gone.

It's true that time is a terrible killer of memories.

But maybe that's why I could never bring myself to get rid of these boxes or parts of my life they contain.

I knew one day I would need to remember where I was, who I was with and what I was doing.

For every lost memory, I have created dozens of new ones.

How fun it will be to re-visit some of these parts of my past.

And how powerful it will be for me to finally, once and for all, get rid of those things that tether me to things better left forgotten.

tags: coping mechanism, emotional health, healing, memories, time, triggers

A friend of mine has an elderly parent. Over the last few years, her mental health has completely deteriorated from forgetfulness to dementia and now Alzheimer's. She is no longer able to live on her own, and so she and her husband have been re-located to an assisted living facility.

What is interesting about all of this is her mind.

Traditionally, time tends to fade some of the details we have about memory. We remember an event, know it was important, recall the highlights, and that's it. For the most part, our mind seems most sharp in the present.

But for my friend's mother, her mind seems to working in reverse.

It's the present that causes her the most problems but her recollection of past events seems to be coming back with a vengeance and with full-clarity.

Example?

She forgot to put bananas in her banana nut bread (trust me, bananas make ALL the difference!) but she can sing songs in Latin that she learned when she was in 7th grade.

It's been painful at times for my friend to watch this process unfold, but what it's shown me is that something that I've wished for most of my life, which is to forget the painful parts of my past, seems to be a natural part of aging.

The problem?

I'm not just forgetting the painful parts. In my mind there is no difference. As I age and the past grows more distant, my recollection of certain things becomes less and less.

Perhaps it from lack of trying.

There are many things I've buried, not wanting to recall, and perhaps that's why when I have tried, these things are the fuzziest of all.

Or perhaps there is a natural part of my mind that can only "hold" so much. As I age, my experiences, my interactions, successes and failures are so plentiful that I imagine there is a sorting process that is taking place.

Or maybe my dream really has come true.

Maybe the things I prayed for years to forget, have finally been buried so deep, I have.

But my friend's mother brings up the question for how long as these things "gone"?

Will I too wake up one day in the future, towards the sunset of my life, and realize with tremendous clarity things I'd forgotten?

In a recent study, doctors have discovered that certain drugs will prevent short-term memories from being long-term memories. This means that people who have been raped, suffer from shell-shock and other devastating disorders triggered by painful memories, could, in the future, take a pill and "forget" them.
http://abcnews.go.com/Health/Story?id=2964509&page=1

This idea intrigues me. So much of who I feel I grew up to be stems from painful things in my past.

Who would I be now if I had the chance back then to "erase" them?

Would I be a happier person?

Would I be someone less proned to an eating disorder and self-injury?

Or, would I be living a lie?

One day I may have to face this choice. It seems that taking this magic pill doesn't have a time requirement. That is to say a person can take the pill years after the event.

If I had the chance to take it now, would I?

I really don't know.

Maybe the parts of myself I find the most ugly and shameful are the same parts that truly make me who I am.

I would hate to take a pill and think I was helping myself when in actuality I was destroying part of my essence.

It's something to thing about and weigh carefully because this choice may be one I get to make in my lifetime.

A life or death decision?

Most assuredly.

tags: aging, alzheimer's, cutting, eating disorders, medication, memory, painful past, self-injury, therapy

Because people are unpredictable, it shouldn't come as a surprise that they will let you down.

A lot.

But it does.

I've never been able to "read" people well. People who I believe I can trust and be friends with inevitably prove to be exactly the opposite.

When giving gifts, it seems that more often than not, what I give isn't what or when people expect.

Maybe this explains why I like to watch the weather.

Although Mother Nature is incredibly unpredictable, the weatherman is able to speculate, sometimes with accuracy, sometimes without, what to expect when I walk out the front door each morning.

It's usually the first thing I watch each day and the last thing I watch before I go to bed.

If I know that bad weather is coming, I will track it throughout the day. I will pull up Weather Bug and see where it is and what it has in store.

And when the bad weather comes, I feel satisfied because for once, something did what was expected and I was ready for it.

The egocentrism of others continues to amaze me.

Perhaps it's because I work in a field where I can be anything but. I give of myself all day everyday to people who rarely say thank you or acknowledge my efforts.

But I enjoy what I do, so I don't think about it much.

But when I interact with adults who are not familiar with what a teacher does, invariably I am reprimanded for "giving away" so much of my time.

"You shouldn't complain about being tired or overwhelmed. YOU were the one who volunteered to tutor kids after school."

And I'm thinking, when else will they get help?

Because no one knows what it's like to walk in another's shoes, it's easy to pass judgement on others.

Do I do that?

You bet.

I am appalled at people behave, how little control they have over their children in public, and how many times victims are blamed for what happens to them.

It's hard not to let disappointment not be a trigger anymore. It was always such a huge one for me.

Someone would react completely opposite to how I thought they would and it would send me over the edge.

But now I hang over the edge without any kind of net and it's hard to know what to do with those feelings.

A friend of mine told me we would read this book I bought, together, and use it to strengthen our relationship.

But the day of "being ready" never came and after three months, I'd had enough.

I tore every page out of that book and wadded them up into the smallest balls I could.

I've never done that before in my life, but at the moment, it was the only thing I could think to do other than hurt myself out of frustration.

Here's what people don't realize about SI. It has life of its own. Triggers are triggers forever, but once you stop cutting, you have to find something else to do with the waves of emotions.

Sometimes I cry.

Sometimes I write.

Sometimes I slam the door hard enough to make pictures fall off the wall.

But my body remains injury free.

As I face my third year of being injury free, I'm learning that the greatest disappointment of all lies within me and my expectations of the world I live in.

One of my therapists told me once I would be happier if the world was more like me.

It's an interesting thought.

But the "other" me would probably just end up disappointing the real me and I'd be right back where I started.

tags: anger management, communication, coping mechanisms, cutting, feelings, self-inury, triggers

As the state of our world's economy continues to falter, Spain has found a way to help their youngest citizens realize what their adult life might really be like: work, paying bills, grocery shopping, etc.

In a theme-park like environment, children learn that nothing in this world is free. If they want to eat, they have to work a "job" to earn play money to pay for it. If they want to drive one of the cars in the park, they have to "work" to earn "money" for a drivers' ed course, their license, car insurance and gas.
http://www.cnn.com/video/#/video/business/2009/02/18/goodman.spain.kiddie.capitalism.cnn

Children are able to see, first-hand, what an adult's responsibilities really are.

Talk about invaluable insight!!

One of the most exciting aspects of this concept is the idea that work doesn't have to be drugery. People earn money in a variety of ways, and many do so through a career they enjoy.

If children have a chance to see what real life is like through "play money" and understand how hard real money is to come by, they will have an increased sensitivity.

I think this is an amazing idea. Children want to be grown-up, but few realize what that really means. By getting a small taste now, I bet more children will appreciate the fact that they aren't having to work so hard for what they have, but will appreciate their parents more for what they provide.

The issue of affording treatment is always something that comes up, even in the best of financial times.

But now that most Americans are having to make the hard choices, where does one find the money to pay for therapy or extended treatment?

All I can say is that I've had to be very creative in paying for my treatment. Although some of my therapy would have been covered by insurance, I was so afraid of their being a "paper trail" through my insurance that would expose my self-injury, that I paid for all of my therapy by myself.

As anyone who has been in therapy knows, treatment isn't cheap. I paid $100 per hour (really 50 minutes) ten or more times per month.

As a teacher, this was a tremendous financial burden, but one I had to take on in order to get myself to a healthy emotional place.

There were times when I did not have the money for therapy and couldn't find anyone to help me with a payment plan.

In times of great financial strain, I sought out a therapist through my local community advocacy center. The therapists there were not yet certified, but instead students working on their last hours of supervised therapy.

I didn't care.

I needed someone to talk to, whether they understood my disorder completely or not, and used them as long as I could until I was strong enough and had more resources to return to my regular therapist.

In my early years, there were counseling services through my church that I used. Fees for these services were based on a sliding scale which meant you paid what you could afford. I didn't have a income at that time and so I got my sessions for free.

Affording therapy or treatment is never easy, but it is possible if one is resourceful.

This is an investment in YOU. It's never a bad idea to ask questions or to see if someone will work with you with regards to payment arrangements.

The worst a person can say is no, but you never know for sure until you ask.

The times in my life when I could afford it the least were usually the times when I needed to talk to someone the most.

My self-injury increased when things were tight, when I felt trapped, when creditors were calling at 5AM on a Sunday.

I know what it's like to want to disappear and not have the resources to run that far.

But in the end, I had the face the fight. I had to go out of my comfort zone and find people who would help me make it one more day.

It wasn't always the most ideal situation, but it worked. And as soon as I could, I returned to my regular therapist.

Don't put yourself last. Don't allow financial limitations to totally shut down the work you are doing. Be honest with your therapist. Tell them what you can and cannot afford. If they can't see you without full payment, maybe they know someone who can.

Don't be ashamed. This is real life.

YOU must keep fighting for your health and well-being, even in times of financial difficulty.

If you are a high school student, ask to speak to one of the counselors on campus. They are professionally trained counselors and are on campus to help you. If they do not have the resources on campus to address your needs, they should be able to partner you with someone in your community.

If you are a college student, ask to speak to someone in Student Services. There is a counseling center on all college campuses. The number or sessions you get may be limited (I hear the number 10 a lot) but in severe cases, more sessions are alloted.

If you are a professional, explore the resources in your community. Ask about free counseling services through your community advocacy center. If you pay taxes in that community, you are entitled to take advantage of their services.

And finally, if you belong to a church or diocese, ask if there are counselors you can visit with.

I realize that none of these solutions are the same as working with a certified therapist week to week. But gains can still be made even with a new person.

Money is hard to come by right now, for everyone.

But therapy doesn't have to stop. Fight for yourself.

You deserve it!

tags: cutting, mental health, recovery, self-injury, therapy, treatment

Of all the medical conditions there are, Munchausen by Proxy has to be one of the most disturbing. I don't know much about it and have never really heard anyone speak on it. But last week, I came across a book that piqued my interest: Sickened: The Memoir of a Munchausen by Proxy Childhood by Julie Gregory.

I feel like my eyes have been opened to a new horror.

The more I read about different psycholgical conditions people experience, the more I realize two things: one, a parent's treatment of their children early in life impacts them indefinately and two, that most people are stronger than they realize in overcoming tremendous adversity.

I am always amazed at the amount of fight in others and remiss that there isn't more of it within me at times.

I think of the people, like Julie, who are terrorized by the very people that gave them life. To be able to find a sense of self again and then to take it one step further and continue a relationship with their abuser is something I struggle to understand.

I have experienced many things in my life, but none as horrific as what Julie described.

Her story inspires me.

It reaffirmes that others are dealing with things behind closed doors that few know anything about.

How sad to pass judgement on others without knowing the real story.

But it happens all the time, doesn't it?

Julie's story is filled with raw emotion and after reading it, one can't help but feel a little ashamed at how much life issues have impacted them when in comparison, they really aren't that bad.

I have learned something this week, both about a disorder I knew little about and about myself.

I'm realizing that inspiration to help me on my journey can come from places I least expect.

And even though my past and Julie's differ, our wounded spirits speak the same language.

There continues to be comfort in numbers.

tags: childhood abuse, munchausen by proxy, physical ailments, psychological disorder, recovery, relationships, treatment

For all the time I've spent searching, you think I'd have all the answers I've been looking for.

But I don't.

Answers offer a lot of things to the person asking.

Insight.

Reassurance.

Logical explanations.

Another point of view.

Background history.

And perhaps most important...

Closure.

Over the years I've asked my parents a lot of questions.

About their marriage.

Their divorce.

Their parents.

Their relationships with their parents.

A health history...on both sides of the family tree.

ALL of these with the hopes of finding that one "ah ha" moment that would explain why I am the way I am.

Most of the times the answers have been hard to come by.

Some things it seems are better left unsaid...even decades after the fact.

But the answers I have managed to get have been, in one word, unsatisfying.

I have yet to find the "ah ha" moment and find myself asking more often than not, that's it?

Some questions I've learned have no real answer.

It's like trying to explain the moment you realized your best friend was indeed your best friend.

It just happened.

Lots of things in life "just happen".

Life throws us curve balls that we field without really having control over where they land.

We aim, close our eyes and hope for the best.

Sometimes the best means love lost, hurt feelings, loss of trust and regret.

It wasn't planned.

It just happened.

I'm learning that sometimes no answer IS the answer.

It doesn't matter how long I search or who I ask, the information I'm looking for just may not exist.

That's a hard pill to swallow.

Why?

Because I was raised to believe that "seek and ye shall find."

Although that is rooted in biblical truth, I've applied to most of the things in my life.

How disappointing to know that the answers I want, may not be answers I can find.

But the hope is that one day they will be.

My hope is that by speaking out about self-injury, that one day there WILL be an "ah ha" moment.

But I haven't been able to give up the fight completely.

I still read and talk to people and share with the hopes of making some new connection or exposing myself to a new way of thinking that I hadn't considered before.

It's funny.

Three years ago when I injured last, I just knew that one day I would have this whole self-injury thing figured out.

But that hasn't turned out to be the case.

At least, not yet.

tags: closure, cutting, insight, recovery, self-injury, self-mutilation, treatment

It's amazing how dates become significant depending on what's going on in your life at the time.

For almost 20 years, August 31 was a significant day for me because that was the day I met my ex-husband and we shared our first date. I knew that night that he was the man I was going to marry, and I was right.

Days associated with birthdays, anniversaries, family celebrations, etc. imprint themselves on your mind.

And then one day you wake up and none of that matters anymore.

The dates that held so much significance are no longer yours to claim.

Three years after my divorce, I wonder when I will forget that they were ever important in the first place.

January 28.

January 29.

For so long, so important, but now they are just another day on the calendar.

They have been replaced with NEW days of significance.

September 31.

June 12.

But it's hard not to stop and take pause on days important in my past. I don't wish them back, but it feels wrong to ignore that they were important in the first place.

People don't seem to talk about that.

Moving on after a loss.

I wonder if a year has ever gone by since my dad left that my mother hasn't remembered my dad's birthday on March 19th.

How do you pretend the day is nothing when your heart gave it permanence long ago?

And I wonder about my NEW dates of importance.

Will these be the days I remember forever, or will they too one day become a distant memory of what was?

People talk about moving on like it's an easy thing, but it's not. A loss is a loss and it continues to be that way whether the loss is as a result of a death, divorce or murder.

It's amazing the days you remember: getting your first kiss, your dad leaving, graduating from college, getting married, getting divorced, falling in love again with someone new...

I look now to great anticipation with another day I will remember forever.

February 23, 2006.

The last time I cut.

But I didn't know it at the time.

I know there are more dates of importance waiting for me.

But it's hard to shift my thinking about the old ones.

tags: cutting, emotional health, loss, memories, recovery, self-injury, treatment