In the Burning Phase of My Life.

To befriend the shadow girl in the mirror…

Do you ever?

Do you ever get tired of yourself?

I don’t know about you, but I woke up today, shuffled into the kitchen, made coffee with my puffy eyes still closed, sat and gulped down that first cup, and then…just sat there. Nothing was wrong. Nothing to fix in particular, no phone calls to make at six-something in the morning, no chores that couldn’t wait until later. Sitting down in front of my computer, I re-read my two written offerings from yesterday…and cringed. Good God, how can anyone handle me?

I am a bit of a difficult person, it has been said. I have been known to smile and smile while I am biting down on the soft tender flesh of my inner cheek until it bleeds. Ask me how I am, and more often than not, I am fine. Even if my seams are busted, and stitches are dropped all over the place, I’m just fine, thank you. That has always been my problem in therapy as well. If you put me in self-directed talk therapy, I will lead you around in circles and circles, telling you interesting things that seem significant but that aren’t relevant to my current life and woes in the least…until you call me on my bullshit. Then I most likely will never come back to your office again. Proud of this? No, I’m not. I’m trying hard to work to change this. But part of me has always feared that if I let you see too many of my weaknesses or faults, you will consider me a bad investment and leave. Once again, this is my problem, not yours.

But exposing myself has always been nearly impossible for me. Being the perfect girl is difficult. I don’t know why I ever thought it would be easy. Perfect grades, yes. Perfect manners…I’m there. But if I were to choose the perfect me, the description that I would hand to the police artist to render would produce someone that didn’t even have a passing resemblance to yours truly. I have used my body as a way to avoid the issues that are really boiling under the heated surface of me. Make it bigger to function as armor, to be paradoxically mighty in mass, but utterly invisible at the same time. Starve myself down to a symphony of clean white bone, and be more visible than ever, a ghastly cautionary tale. Neither extreme seems to work all that well, but I find that the mid-ground that I tread in feels even worse. There is no comfort in the middle.

I guess what I am trying to say is this. I am a work in progress…and I’m not sure where the progression is leading to. The despair I feel when I look in the mirror is extreme. I feel out of control, too much of me all over the place. I am no longer the sad, tiny graceful girl that was small enough to fly away on dandelion fluff. She is the one that I tend to cast as Most Desirable, even though she held my hand during the darkest and most hopeless times in my entire life. Thinnest me=invincible. A twisted idea, one I need to let go of, but it has a tempting siren song all its own. By writing all this down, I hope to see all of the holes in my theory of what makes me who I am, and try to strive towards a model that will work and sustain me for the rest of my life.

It’s hard to set this all down in words. It’s hard to admit that I need others, both for validation and companionship, and just to know that I am not alone. For me, anorexia has always been a disease of isolation and pulling away. I, quite frankly, cannot survive like that anymore.

So, I write. And I must get over the uncomfortable notion that I don’t deserve to have my voice heard. I am a person who believes that everyone’s voice and point of view is precious, and what makes them who they are.

Is it okay if I join in, too?


March 25, 2010 - Posted by | Deep thoughts with a side of coffee. | , , , ,

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