always recovering, but never recovered, with the constant possibility of relapse.

Addiction is a lifelong disease, which makes recovery a lifelong process.

I know this because everyone says it. My mom about alcoholism, Nic Sheff (Tweak) about meth/heroin addiction, and me, about mine. No matter how many years you stay sober, the addiction is always apart of you, waiting to climb back into your body and take over. They say it about eating disorders too. No matter how hard you work, how long you stay out of it, there's always that chance you give into it one day.

And you see, for someone struggling as much as me, a lifetime seems way too long to be dealing with something. Why can't it just go away now? Leave me the fuck alone for, like, an hour. For once, I'd like it to just be me inside my head. I'm tired of hearing from my addiction, I'm tired of hearing from my ED alter ego, Jenna. Just go away, I don't want you here anymore.

And this is why people relapse.

There's all these voices in your head, from all your different problems, telling you what to do.

And sometimes it just gets too overwhelming and you give in. At least it keeps them quiet for awhile.

you just need me to be stable, but i won't be able.

Ugh, I miss it so, so, so, so, so much sometimes.


Addiction. It'll never lose its grip on you.








Sing Sing by Marianas Trench!
Listen to it, you know it's amazing.

after injury, a scar is what makes you whole.

The first few days after I cut myself, all I felt was guilt, shame, and burning. I was incredibly angry at myself for damaging my skin, which has no marks aside from a freckle here or there. I turned the one thing flawless on my body into something ugly, damaged. And what if they didn't heal properly, would I have to wear long sleeves every day for the rest of my life to hide my embarrassing scars, the ones that showed nothing but crazy and weakness?

My cuts have healed up pretty nicely since then, but are still visible. I'm hoping they do eventually totally fade, but taking care of them has helped make them less stark. And the crazy thing, is that I've almost grown to like them. The first time I went out without sleeves, this cashier looked right at them and gave me this awful look. It was a mix of disgust, and pity. It was like she thought I was gross, but still felt bad for me. At first it bothered me, I went back to wearing hoodies in 90 degree weather. But after a few days, it just made me angry. So, so, so fucking angry. Who was this girl to look at me with pity?

That was when I almost grew to like my scars, and what they mean. Imperfection is beauty. To me anyways. I see imperfections and marks in others to be stunning, but in myself I hate them. Why should I demand perfection of myself, but not in others? People who are damaged are more interesting. Stronger in a way, since anyone who has gone through something and survived, came out the other side with a new understanding. A new strength they gained through survival. And not only is there something beautiful about imperfections, tattoos, scars, anything, but what happens to wounds and scars? They heal. I kind of love my scars because they give me a new hope. I cut my skin, I put a knife deep into my flesh and created open injuries. Injuries not unlike my emotional ones, where there is pain, and blood and damage. But over time, my cuts healed, filling in my wounds with brand new skin. My skin was broken, damaged, un-whole, but my body healed and fixed me, making me whole again.

I used to think people with scars were damaged, unwhole. I used to think people with scars like mine were lost and pained. I had no hope for them. I thought once you were that low, that you would never be able to get back up. Your scars would always give you away. But now I'm seeing that it's the ones whose scars have healed, they're the ones more whole that anyone. Because they've allowed themselves to heal. They've found a way to overcome everything, move on, and let their wounds close over. And if you can overcome that and have the scars to prove it, why not show them off to the world?

This all just motivated me to heal my inner wounds like my outer ones so I can show off those battle scars too. So today I will go out without sleeves to hide who I am. And I dare anyone to look at me with pity, cause I sure as hell don't pity myself for having them. I'm probably even stronger than the person staring.

confession is always weakness; the grave soul keeps its own secrets, and takes its own punishment in silence.

My blog's looking pretty empty these days, and I've been putting off updating this again.

The whole thing with Ryan had finally blown over. Well, until he found my blog, clever of me to use the same username for everything. Stupid google, ugh. He found it, saw the post that mentions the guy that broke us up and assumed I was still talking him. Obviously I'm not, as soon as I knew I had a chance to fix things, I broke all contact with him. I not only had to, I wanted to. I mean, save a two year relationship with the guy I love, or keep talking to a 'friend'? Choice is easy.

So anyways, he flipped. I kept telling him the post is old, that I don't talk to the guy, but why trust a lying, cheating whore, right? Too bad I'm not a cheater, or a whore. Sure I lie, but I wasn't this time.

Finally I kind of convinced him. We're back together and I'm so, so, so glad. I missed him so much. But this is at the price of losing my blog, kind of. I reverted all my posts back to drafts so I wouldn't totally lose them. What I write on here is mine, and mine alone. I share it with the people who read it. People who are usually in the same boat or have some empathy/understanding, otherwise, why would they be reading stuff like this anyways? I share it because this is the one place where people come to read, relate, and understand, not to judge. I don't share it with my family, friends, or boyfriend. There's a lot they don't know about me, wouldn't want to know about me. And if they did, things between us would never be the same. I choose to keep this shit, this pain and suffering and problems to myself. The relationships I have right now are good, why change that just to share embarrassing, important secrets? I mean, maybe I should, maybe it would help me get better. Help me feel better. But I've made it this far on my own, I think I can keep my secrets hidden and be just fine.

Anyways, these secrets are why I had to make my posts disappear for now. He said he only read the one, and who knows if that's the truth, but I couldn't risk him reading what was on the others, should he break his promise and read them all (he insisted he wouldn't read anything from here ever). What I have written doesn't need to be between us. It's not like I'm confessing to murder or cheating in them. They're secrets that don't need to be told, so I'm keeping them. Hiding them, tucking them away from everyone for now. Hopefully one day soon I can share them with anyone reading again.

feeling so easy, make me sking and bones, i'm always on my knees for you.

Didn't feel up to writing a post about myself, but I thought I'd share some amaaaaazing lyrics. Anyone with bulimia, or any eating disorder really, can relate to this song. It's by Mariana's Trench and is called "Skin and Bones. Josh Ramsay the lead singer (and the love of my life) is a recovering? bulimic and heroin addict. So most of their songs can help relate to addicts and those with eating disorders. Check them out, they help me, maybe they'll help you.  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VrFjnVLMcb0 . Try "Push", "Feeling Small", and "Fix Me" to name a few.

I lock the door, turn all the water on,
and bury that sound, so no one hears anything anymore.
Mirror lie to me, tell me you can see,
maybe you won't be able to recognize me now.
I know you can feel all the things you steal,
and you're taking it, and you're taking it.

Feeling so easy, make me skin and bones.
I'm always on my knees for you.
Break like it's even, when you're leaving.
Thin, where the hell have you been?

Well sometimes it burns, maybe I'll wash it out.
It all looks so big, nevermind, I don't feel anything.

It only hurt a bit and I still feel like shit.
And I think you won't be able to recognize me now.
It's easier to quit, it's harder to admit.
And you're pushing me, you're fucking pushing me!

Feeling so easy, make me skin and bones.
I'm always on my knees for you.
Break like it's even, when you're leaving.
Thin, where the hell have you been?

Cause you always win,
and you always win, yeaaah.

Laughin' like it works, bleeding like it don't hurt.

Knock you off your feet, even if you need me.
Tear you apart and I hate how I need you.

Feeling so easy, make me skin and bones.
I'm always on my knees for you.
Break like it's even, when you're leaving.

It's too fucking easy, make me skin and bones
I'm always on my knees for you.
Break like me it's even, when you're leaving it
Thin, where the hell have you been?
'Cause you always win, and you always win, you always win.
I will burn all this [x9]

it's not the size of the dog in the fight, it's the size of the fight in the dog.

*I am in no way endorsing dog fights with this title, they're horrible. Just a good quote.

 A week ago, since I posted last. Things just got increasingly worse. Before I get into that, I think there's a background story that needs to be interluded here:
 Me and my boyfriend have been together and madly in love for two years. We live together, we're always together and we're happy. But we fight a lot. We 'break-up' a lot and then everything is fine by the net day. We make up and are back to normal. We love hard, and fight hard. But this time I really screwed up. He just left me and that was that. I don't think we can bounce back from this. Maybe this is the time he never comes back. He really hurt me and broke my heart.  So this is where my week of drug binge and drinking drinking started. That's also the week I cut myself. And the week my Cymbalta or situation made me want to die.

Continuing on, my last post, I was crashing. I slept forever, and woke up feeling horrible. Depressed. Hopeless. Anxious. Shaking. Ryan still didn't want me, my other friend has a new girlfriend, and my best friend doesn't know I'm a drug addict wreck. I have nobody. So I rush to the LCBO, buy this HUGE bottle of vodka, get some more sleeping pills, and whatever else I can get my hands on. And so, my drug and alcohol binge continues, my non eating continues. And despite how heartbroken and sad I am, when I'm fucked up, I don't care. My drugs and whatnot is all I need.

Ryan ended up messaging me, and we talked for a long time. We decided we were going to work on things. Take it slow, do the whole best friend thing until everything's okay. Yet for some reason, as completely happy I am that we have the chance to fix something that should have never been broke, I couldn't stop myself from thinking what about the things that are already broken and always have been broken. Like me, I'm broken, always have been. And my idea of fixing myself, is a fix...of drugs, purging, starving, whatever. So I keep breaking myself more. Will I ever be fixed? Do I even deserve to be fixed? I'm afraid he's going to come back expecting the girl he loved, the one he met, the one who was sober before all this. And what if we try, and he changes his mind, and I have to go through all this heartbreak again. I cannot handle that.

So I spent my nights talking till him until he went to bed, then I'd begin my nighttime drug routine. I kept getting worse, and it wasn't until I drank and drugged myself do death that I realized I'm becoming an alcoholic too. My mom found me, puking my guts up, incoherent, eyes rolling back in my head. When I did finally wake up, I was still drunk. I couldn't remember anything, my whole night was a black hole. I decided I couldn't drink anymore. My mom was furious, pointing out what I never even knew, you aren't supposed to drink while on antidepressants...I'm on two. I felt like shit for a few days recovering from that night.

Things with Ryan are getting much better, I think we're going to be okay. We've been hanging out, getting intimate and I'm so glad. He also helped me realize I've been misjudging weed the whole time. I personally think it's therapeutic. It gets rid of my anxiety, I can relax, it helps me sleep, and I don't even need all the other drugs. I still will have all the other drugs for now, I'm not ready to give them up, but maybe it'll help me slowly get off them. It's a lot better than drinking, sleeping pills, xanax, percs, coke, you name it that I'd do.

I'm not giving up. It seems like I've relapsed again and want to stay an addict. I don't I just need to get my life a bit more in order, build up the strength deep down in me. It's me against a monster, I need to build the fight in me before I can fight something that size. But I will do it. I've gotten clean before on a lot worse, I can do it again. Just give me time.

'i feel like a super model who just skipped a meal.'

So I don't know if it's the Cymbalta that's making me so fucked in the head, or if it's this stupid break up or what. But everything I've read on the package says it's a possibility, and not to stop taking them until I see a doctor. I won't be able to see him until the 25th. Until then, at least I've got my mom watching me like a hawk...I could fucking punch her.

On the bright side of all this, I can't bring myself to eat anything. It's been days since I've had anything but drugs and booze (to the point of black out), and I've managed to get down to 138. I feel so shaky though, I thought I'd try to eat something, but my appetite is gone, I had a bite of this delicious pasta salad, and couldn't bring myself to eat anymore. Such a weird feeling, considering one bite usually results in a disgusting pig out. But I fucking love it. I'll take the suicidal bullshit to be thin any day of the week. It feels fucking fantastic.

Dying to be thin, how ironic. At least it's not false advertising.

Boys fucking suck, but at least one good thing came from it.

'the monster likes to talk; he jumps into your head and opens your mouth, making it spout your deepest darkest deceptions. making you say all the things you'd rather not say, at least not in mixed company.'

I'm just waking up fully now. When I first opened my eyes this afternoon, everything was hazy. I felt really confused. My head was pounding, my body shaking, and my eyes refused to focus. So I closed them and tried to drift off again.

It wasn't until I woke up again later that I felt the burning pain on my arm. It scared me, all the red inflamed gashes on my arm. I touched them, they were scalding hot and the touch sent pain shooting through my body. I almost passed out, needles and cuts bother me. When did I do this to myself?

Everything is still so hazy, almost like it was a distant childhood dream, that you can't remember if it's real or not. But it was, the whole thing was terrifyingly real. I don't remember much of it either. The last clear memory is from last week or so. I went to the doctors, he put my on another antidepressant to help with my anxiety and recommended a psychologist. Next couple of days I spent in bed, trying to accept the fact that my relationship is over. I thought everything was going to be okay, and then I felt it. This overwhelming urge to die. As depressed as I've ever been, I have never felt anything like this. It was horrifying and I tried to keep calm, but I couldn't. I couldn't feel like this. And then I started drinking and smoking pills. That's the last thing that's clear.

It was like my bulimic alter ego Jenna and my unnamed addiction joined forces and became this horrible monster in my mind that led me through days of hell. I was drowned out as they took over my mind. But eventually they couldn't even take it, and that's when I guess I finally crashed. I can still feel them, whispering in the back of my mind. It's almost exactly like Ellen Hopkin's book Crank. I can;t let their voices get louder than mine again. I need to go back to sleep, crashing's a bitch.

Guess I will be seeing that psychologist after all.

imagine trying to live without air, now imagine something worse.

it's funny, one moment your on your road to recovery, the next your staring death in the eyes, hoping he wins the stare-down.

have you ever watched blood trickle down your arm? the stinging pain is almost as good as snorting 10 pain killers. i never want to feel again. every time i let myself feel, i end up hurt. fuck, i miss oxys. i miss the mind and body numbing feeling. i miss the rush that lulls you into a sleep. hell, i even miss the pain of withdrawal, creeping up my spine, stealing every ounce of strength and happiness from my soul. i'd do anything for even just one.

it's been a week and a day since he left me. it only took a week for me to fall so low, i think this is what they mean by rock bottom. except, i want to dig six feet deeper. i haven't eaten in days, i don't even know how many. it feels amazing. too bad it's the slowest death i could choose.

but of course, i wanted to feel better. to feel nothing. why did Purdue have to do this to me? to decide that oxys are a problem now, and to replace them with garbage? you couldn't have given me a couple more months? an easy out?

looks like I'm settling for percs again. but snorting them isn't going to do the trick, neither will eating them. god forbid i binge and puke up a perfectly good high. tin foil, a straw, a lighter, and crushed pills. that'll do. it's weird, it's worse than any oxy addiction. once the first hit of chemical smoke hit my lungs, i couldn't stop. it was a constant cycle of crying, drinking, smoking and then snorting sleeping pills to knock me out. i used up 2 lighters, and have burns and blisters all over my thumbs. if i don't have smoke in my lungs, i can't function. i haven't stopped shaking in days. i tell myself it's because i haven't taken a hit in a while, so i do. the shaking doesn't stop.

the thing is, when you've been up high for days, completely out of your mind high, your mind starts to play tricks on you. first, it told me how good the burns feel. how that's all i could feel. then it told me if it was worse, i wouldn't feel a thing. i held them over an open flame. then it told me that wasn't enough. it made me so preoccupied with death for days. i listened to suicide music, fell in love with Kurt Cobain, thought about my empty eyes when i died, and how nobody would care. how i wouldn't hurt anymore.

but how? i didn't know how i could do it, how i could go through with it. so i grabbed the sharpest knife i could find. i just wanted to see how it'd feel. it's the weirdest thing, it hurts so badly that you can't feel it. now i have 8 perfect gashes on my arms.

if i wasn't so fucking high when i did it i would have done it somewhere nobody could see.

i need some help, i have to talk to someone.

ah, to think how thin the veil that lies between the pain of hell and paradise.

For the last couple of weeks I've been up visiting my brother and sister-in law on the army base they lives on. I go up to see them once every summer, this was my third summer. When I say army base, nothing beautiful or serene comes to mind, but this place is absolutely amazing. There's hills, and tons of beaches/water, and so so many huge trees which makes the air seem so fresh. It's like you've never really taken a breath until you get there and fill your lungs. The houses are all owned by the Canadian Forces, but they're cute and cozy. Not too big and not too small. And the best thing of all is the quiet. I don't live in a big city, but it's big enough to be busy and loud. Up there, aside from the random plane here and there, it's refreshing silence.

Or so I thought.

The last two times I've been there I never wanted to leave. When the week was up I was so sad to be heading home. That's why I stayed longer this time. But alot of things have changed since last summer, including the way I felt being up there. Suddenly the silence I used to welcome, seemed too silent. It was like the silence was just so, loud? The clean, normal part of me enjoyed it, took the time to reflect on things, to write, and to just relax and get away from it all. But the addict part in me, the one still screaming for drugs couldn't stand the silence. Without noise and busy-ness, that part of me suddenly seemed louder and more present in my head. Back home I had people to talk to, things to do, and there was always music. It kept my addiction on the side lines to let me stay clean. But up here, I had to stay clean without the help of distraction. I actually had to listen to the addict's begging and pleading for drugs, I had to listen to the pain and anger. I had to listen to all of it, and face all of it. Which left me angry, depressed, and home sick. I couldn't sleep, and I found myself stealing booze the first couple of nights. And as embarrassing it is to addmitt it, I even stole drugs. He had knee surgery before I came up, and had a bunch of percs left over. Each one has 5mg of oxycodone in them, and seeing them all there in the bottle after not seeing anything for so long, after missing it for so long, I just couldn't resist. It wasn't exactly an 80, but it was closer than I'd get to it. I stole one on one of the first few nights, and even just the one made me so high. I couldn't believe it. So I stole another one. I couldn't beleive that I was reacting this way. I didn't know my tolerance could go down so much, so quickly. So thank god they weren't 80's. I read somewhere that most addicts OD when they relapse because they go back to their normal usage amount after losing tolerance. I didn't believe it, because what kind of idiot takes the same amount after going without? I just didn't know it was so drastic. I used to do at least three 80's a day! That's 240mg's, and I was suddenly getting high from less than five. So if they were 80's I would have broken it into 8 pieces (uneven because they're hard to break into more than 4 even pieces). That's still 10mg's per piece, and some would be bigger than others. And I would have pushed it, I probably would have just done a quarter of it, because I thought that's what they meant by my tolerance going down...from 240 to 20, and I'm an addict, I'd want to get as fucked up as possible. But I guess it went down almost completely and that thing I read was completely accurate. I'm just lucky for my health they were percs and nothing more. It's already bad enough morally and emotionally to be relapsing on stolen drugs. How stupid am I?

Anyways, I ended up stealing two more (at the same time). But something kept me from doing them. And I was going to put them back, I really was. But this part of me wouldn't do it, it's like I just needed to have them even if I wasn't doing them. Which backfired because I put them in my purse, and didn't realize until I got to the airport, that I'd have to smuggle narcotics through airport security. I honestly considered doing it, and I would have gotten away with it. But I chickened out, the rational, thinking clearly part of me decided it was fucking stupid to risk for two pills. But the other part of me wasn't going to let them go to waste. So I took them (ate them), both of them at the same time before going through security. Keep in mind I usually snort these things, so snorting one in one night means I'm doing less than the 5mgs at once, which since that takes longer, and I could still get high with such a low tolerance, it was more efficient. Horrible for my nose with all the acetaminophen, but whatever, it felt kind of nice. So anyways, I took two whole pills orally, getting 10mgs of it at once. It felt great I won't lie, but it was borderline that uncomfortable too high feeling. Especially when babies started crying, or annoying passengers beside me asked stupid questions. I just wanted to put my head back and enjoy it, since it won't be happening anytime soon. But obviously in some odd way it was like I was being punished for being such a weak, horrible person.

Don't get me wrong, I loved being up there. I loved seeing my brother and getting away from everything back home. And as hard as it was, I guess it was probably good to finally deal with some of it, rather than just keeping it aside where the cravings just grow stronger and stronger. And the stronger they grow, the harder it will be to say no if some thing's in front of me. Which is exactly what I let happen. I ignored it, pushed it down and as soon as drugs were within my reach and I was feeling low, I caved. I caught myself though, and that's why I didn't touch the other two while I was there. But I still stole them and I knew that having them would eventually result in taking them. And it ended up biting me in the ass anyways. And I felt like such a bitch for caving, relapsing, stealing from my brother, and not fully enjoying a trip that should have been paradise. I let me addiction turn it into hell instead.

But don't worry, it was only a minor relapse. I'm back on track. I messed up, but I learned from my mistake. And I'm once again sober. Hopefully for good this time.

And the other moral of the story is, don't do drugs before going on an airplane, hahaha.

deposit happiness into your day, instead of withdrawing sadness.

I don't know what happened, but sometime between my last post and today, I realized I wasn't a total wreck anymore. Maybe it's because I've been busy, or because things with me and Ryan have been  going really well. I don't know. Either way, I feel...okay. which may seem bad in comparison to happy, but for me, okay is good. It's a first step at least.

I'm still sober in terms of pills. Although not entirely sober if you count weed. Okay and maybe coke one time. But it was only one time, and I have absolutely no urge to do either again. I know it sounds like a cop out, but if that will keep me oxy free, then I'll take it. Also, I've been in such a good mood that my weight hasn't yo-yo'd and I haven't been binging or purging nearly as much as I was.
It's funny, one day you're basically a depressed, anxious, crack whore (not exactly, just making a point), bulimic going through withdrawal and getting clean all while feeling so bad you want to give up on life all together, and then without even realizing it, you somehow transition into just okay. I don't know when or where it happened, but I'm glad it did.

I still miss drugs, it's hard not to. It's like everything was enhanced and now I'm back to normal life, which will obviously seem boring in comparison. But in comparison to directly after they were out of my life, and in comparison with before, I'm doing much better. And if I stay clean, it's only up from here. Right?

Maybe all this time I was just to busy focusing on the sad parts of my life to really realize the happy parts.

a father should be his son's first hero, and his daughter's first love.

Today was Father's Day. Well technically yesterday, but until I fall asleep (if I do at all), it's still today.

My younger brother and I went to brunch with my dad's side of the family. My mom was still out of town visiting one of my older brothers. Everyone around kept saying happy father's day to us in general and to the dads there specifically. I found it hurtful and insulting that they kept throwing this around so lightly with no regard to me and my brother.

Because "'Happy' Father's Day" is only happy when you still have your dad.

It's our first Father's Day without him, and I miss him more than anything in the world. It just makes me sad to think about how disappointed he'd be in me if he could see how my life has gone downhill since he passed away. And I'm in no way blaming my problems on him dying. It was my personal decision and weakness at a time of vulnerability that led me down this path. At least he would be somewhat glad that I'm off them, but he'd still be ashamed of me for starting in the first place.

Anyway, so along with people not seeming to know me and my brother might be a bit sad, I was also having major anxiety. Obviously because of the fact that any food setting is automatically a trigger for me (especially when there's no vegetarian options, except for waffles with sugary fruit and whipped cream), and my social anxiety seemed to be extremely high (probably because I wasn't high in a social setting for the first time since my dad died). My heart felt like it would explode, my breathing was rapid and shallow, and I couldn't stop shaking. Nobody even seemed to notice. I finally couldn't take it anymore, so I did the only thing I could do-grabbed my ipod and blasted some Mariana's Trench (Josh Ramsay is the love of my life), which is super close to my heart because of the drug/ED based songs. Funny though, how as soon as I had one of their songs on, my aunt decides to scold me like I was a five year old, telling me to "Take those out of your ears and get over here." Lovely.

Moving on, as soon as we got home later, there was a voicemail on our phone. Someone letting us know they are thinking about us today and hoping we're okay. My heart rate spiked, along with my anger and sadness. Music wasn't going to be enough this time, my belly felt too full, I felt like I was 600lbs, and I couldn't deal with it anymore. After I purged my soul away, I sat down and cried, wishing I had oxy, or Xanax, or something . Anything to numb what I was feeling- depressed, lonely, angry, disgusted, to name a few.

Now I know it seems like I've contradicted myself, saying I was mad nobody said anything about my dad at brunch, and then being mad when someone did. The thing is, there is no right way to handle this. Anything said or done will bring back the sadness and memories and it will hurt either way. Plus I've been on edge the last week and a bit. I managed to get a bit of sleep, but only after my boyfriend and I got into an argument. I was overtired and bitchy, he was drunk, and Jenna (my ED/addict alter ego) was jealous that he was under some form of intoxication and I had nothing. I felt emotionally drained and finally crashed for a few hours, only to wake up and have to deal with all this bullshit.

The only real upside to all of this is that my body finally stopped totally hating me. I finally felt little to no pain today. Even using I still felt pains (if I crashed or went without oxy for more than a few hours I'd wake/end up dope sick). I'm hoping that since I can finally sit still without pain and if I can stay relaxed and calm I'll be able to get some sleep tonight. And more that four hours.

Well, I've rambled on about nothing for long enough. Time to shut my eyes and hope for escape.

Oh, and Dad, I miss you and love you. Happy Father's Day.

when it becomes really impossible to get away and sleep, then the will to live evaporates of its own accord.

Ugh. I'm dying.

I can't sleep no matter how hard I try (or don't try in case I'm just thinking too much). I'm so exhausted. There's literally nothing left in my body. Nothing good anyways. Whether it's the fact that my nights and days were fueled by drugs and sleep crashing was the result (and now without them I've got no energy and nothing to knock me out), or because I can't keep my anxiety in check, or because I'm still pretty sore and restless from coming off these things, I don't know. But it's horrible and I just want to curl up in bed and sleep for the rest of my life.

If I don't get some sleep soon, I think I'll snap.

And whether it's drug fueled rage or just simply anger fueled rage, me snapping is never a good thing.

For anyone.

a lack of clarity could put the brakes on any journey to success.

Apparently so.

I haven't been on here in who knows how long (nothing new there), and to be honest I've been kind of scared to come and check on everything. I was afraid that there would be tons of views and everyone would see how much of a failure I really am. I was afraid I'd discourage someone from trying.

Anyways, I logged on here and found a few new great blogs to read. I was avoiding seeing mine. And holy fuck was I right to be afraid. I read my last post and was absolutely disgusted with myself. I don't know if it's because there's no oxy clouding my mind or if I had just temporarily lost my fucking mind all together. Probably both. But anyways, I apologize to anyone if my swearing offended them (but I do have a filthy mouth, so it won't stop all together, sorry) and I apologize for my absurd crudeness, it was a bit out of line. I considered deleting it, but it's apart of my journey and life story, so it should stay. I was feeling like that at the time and just because I'm not now doesn't make it disappear from my life. I don't want to hide anything.

It's funny though, here I was thinking the drugs were making my brain think more clearly. They definitely helped me get through my classes during school. And now I come on here without them clouding my judgement, and I find that I was definitely out of my mind unclear. Whatever, that's what drugs do to you I guess. Make everything all blurry, so blurry in fact, that you think you have absolute clarity.

Now, finally I can get to the goodish news. I am off oxy (kind of?) I never thought I'd be saying this in a million years. I'm not taking credit though, because it wasn't my own will, I just literally had none left and couldn't get more. And trust me, I tried. When I got down to my last two, I woke up and realized I better start weaning off them or I'll be fucked. I spent the next few days after that hurting. It's weird, I've never had any pain in my life, other than very minor things, but the withdrawal symptoms made me feel like I was dying. It hurt so badly I wanted to kill myself, but it hurt to much to get up and do it. And worst of all was the RLS. It's just so irritating because I couldn't stay still and it's frustrating. Plus having to move to cope with it hurt pretty bad. And sleep? Wasn't going to happen, even though I was exhausted in every possible way. Anyways, I started to panic though, because I was still on the oxy's, just cutting back, but I was going through it way faster than I thought and I was still hurting badly even cutting down slightly each day. I was doing three 80's a day at least and cut back to about 3/4-1/2 of that. I was still doing too much and I didn't have enough to last. That's when I got the best news, and I suddenly had a large amount of percocet (which has 5mgs of oxycodone in it). This made it much easier because I wasn't afraid of running out, and the small amounts helped me cut back more easily than with a 80mg oxy (have you ever tried to split one into 8 pieces or more?). I just took enough to keep the withdrawal symptoms at bay. This was about a week ago, and I'm down to my last half of one, which I will save for tomorrow in case I need it (the pain's still there slightly because I technically haven't got the shit totally out of my system). But I'd rather take this slow and do it so I'm not wishing to die every second of my life. I might have prolonged this shitty stage, but I don't know if that's good or bad? Part of me wishes I were over it and able to go without hurting for a day, but part of me is glad I didn't because it would have been shorter, but much more excruciating. So, as of tomorrow, I will be completely oxy free. I'm kind of happy, but I'm also kind of sad, and even more sad that I'm not more happy about getting sober.

It's just that I didn't expect to miss it this much. I thought that once my body stopped needing it, everything would be fine. But once the need is gone, there's still the want. I just never expected I'd want it so badly. I never expected to feel this insatiable urge to feel the slight burning in my nose, to taste the medicinal taste dripping down my throat. I don't understand what's wrong with me. I should be happy, thankful that I had to do this for myself. But all I am is sad. My anxiety is threw the roof, depression's in full swing. And every fiber in my body is telling me that the answer is snorting more oxy. But I can't do that, so I turn to Jenna, my bulimic alter ego for answers. And yeah the binge purge cycle feels good at first, like my emptiness has been filled and the calories are gone, but then it's all guilt and shame and bullshit. But for some reason if I can't have drugs then stuffing myself and puking it out must be the answer. Cute. Thanks a lot Jenna.

And who am I kidding, if one fell into my hands tomorrow, it'd be crushed up and threw a straw into my nose in seconds. The only reason I "beat" this thing is because I had to.

My life is a fucking train wreck and I have nobody to turn to. How am I supposed to get threw all of this? It's not just one problem, it's tons of problems and they're all feeding into each other making all of them even stronger and worse than before.

I don't know what to do. Which is why I'm having a few drinks and writing this. At least it takes the edge off and makes me feel less alone.

Haaah. And I can't even think of something witty and clever to end with. Pathetic.

i wouldn't recommend sex, drugs or insanity for everyone, but they've always worked for me.

Guess what?
I went to bed fucked up.
I woke up in the middle of the night, and got more fucked up.
I went back to bed and passed out, cause I was too fucked up.
I woke up this morning, rolled out of bed and realized, I was still fucked up.

And honestly, I don't give a fuck.

In fact, as soon as I'm done this, I'll go get fucked up, then I'll get fucked, and then I'll do it all over again.

Oh yeah, I haven't eaten in like two days, and it feels so good, I almost don't even need to get fucked up.

But I will anyways.

 I feel like the modern Marylin. And that feels great.

P.S. Yeah this is crude, get over it.

this will be the last time, everytime's the last time.

So, I haven't posted in anything since the night I said I was getting clean. Not because I didn't try, but because my computer was not in operating condition.

But the big question is, have I stopped using? Not totally. I wanted to cut back, and like, wean myself off of them, because I thought that if I stopped cold Tofurkey (not turkey, I'm a vegetarian, haaha) that the withdrawal would be so horrible that I would give in too easily. I know how weak I am, and I didn't want to put myself in a place where I'd succumb to my weakness.

Anyways, to summarize what's happened over the last week, I wrote my last post, got high, crashed and went to bed. I woke up feeling awful, and had so many things to do. I got high again just to make it through the day. I made a plan and cut all my drugs into small pieces, promising to cut back more and more each day. This went okay for a few days, but then I came into a bit of extra money, and I figured, hey, why not have a little bender as a goodbye to my addiction. So I started using like it's going out of style (ahaha, Mariana's Trench Lyrics <3).

Fast forward to yesterday: I totally ran out of pills. Like totally. My whole city is dry, because of the new Neos, which are the replacement that makes it impossible to use to get high. So I had none left, and no way to get more.

This is when I realized that as much as I want to be clean. I also still really like using. It makes me sad to know that I'm only going to be clean because I have no other choice. It's depressing to know that I couldn't do it, and that I never really even tried. That I will get sober, but not because I chose to. And the problem with that is, if I don't stop because I want to, as soon as they're in my face again, I'll be crushing and snorting.

You might say, "Well, maybe you won't. Maybe after you're clean you'll decide it's not worth it."

Haah. Wrong. Because somehow, I found some. And guess what? As soon as I got them tonight, after not having them for a day or so, I had it in my mouth sucking the coating off, dying to feel it burn my nose.

But again, I don't have much. And I'll probably run out all over again. And then I'll be sober by force, again. Maybe that will be the last time. But everytime is the last time.

the way to get started is to quit talking and begin doing.

The thing about me, as you'll come to see, is I'm all talk. Whether it's talking shit, talking myself up, talking myself down, or just plain talking because my ears like the sound of my own voice, that's all I am. Talk. I spend my whole life talking about things, writing about things, that at the end of the day, all my time was wasted in words, rather than actually getting up and doing something about it. I've been talking about recovery for years now, but when it comes down to actually doing it, I always fall short.

And the sad thing is, I'm so shy that most of my deeper talks are in writing or to myself. Anything else that comes out of my mouth around others is shallow, superficial. If there's anything at all. But I'm afraid to let people in any deeper. Like Nic Sheff says in the afterword from Tweak: 'I guess the biggest fear I had in the whole world was that someone would see what's inside of me and discover what an ugly, disgusting, horrible person I really am.'
So all this means that I'm all talk, but most of my talk goes completely unheard. So really what do I have? Nothing, I'm alone.

I guess there's still just a comfort in words for me though. Which is really why I even started writing this blog. Even if nobody even knows it exists, at least I do. At least I can write exactly how I feel, and write my way through whatever I'm going through. At least it's not bottled up inside of me, building pressure waiting for me to explode until I have to purge it all out. Metaphorically and literally. Which is why I'm so shocked that I have quite a few page views. I'd be happy with one, but excitingly enough, there's even more people reading than I ever thought. It's scary as hell, knowing people are reading what I have to say, knowing things about me even the closest people to me don't even know. But it's oddly comforting too, knowing someone is there listening.

So I guess the point of this post, and title quote from my beloved Walt Disney, is to say thank you to anyone that's has so much as opened my blog. It doesn't seem like much, but for some reason when I looked into the mirror today, and saw how ugly I'm becoming. How my usually deep brown eyes where empty, hollow. My usually beautiful smile seemed horribly fake. How my twenty year old face looked as though it's aged 100 years. How my reflection just seemed dead, I guess I just realized that something needs to change. But like always, changing for me, is seemingly impossible. It's hard to find the energy to pick yourself up, when you've always just fallen back down even harder. And like I said, I'm all talk.

But then I thought of anyone reading. I thought, what if there's a girl out there somewhere, in my shoes. What if she's reading this, reading my lack of motivation. My lack of any real hope. What if she's reading and starts to lose hope too. That's the last thing I want. And so I realized how much hope this all has given me. Even one reader would give me a sense of support. And because I feel overwhelmingly not alone for once, guess that I've found it in me to pick myself up again, and try.

And in the spirit of changing, I figured, what better way to thank everyone reading who has given me the courage, strength and hope to try again, by than actually trying again? Instead of just using words, just saying thank you, I will use my actions as a thank you. I can't guarantee that it will all work out in the end, but I won't ever know if it will until I stop talking and begin doing.

And as a final word, since this post is just too 'perc-y' (pun and misspelling totally intended) and too optimistic for my taste (I can't totally change overnight, hahah), stay tuned for tomorrow: Day One of Excruciating Withdrawal-Enough to Blow My Brains Out. Sounds fucking fantastic.

when you can stop, you don't want to, and when you want to stop, you can't.

It's funny how that works. I don't know about most people, but for me, it was a conscious decision to start using. I never really thought I would ever touch any type of drug. I mean, my whole life (twenty years) I hadn't even taken a sip of alcohol. When I went on my meds for depression and anxiety, I guess that's when I really started, but that wasn't the start of addiction. I was so used to feeling so high strung, so up, with my mind racing all night long, with days and days of insomnia. And the less I slept, the more depressed and anxious I became. So when I was prescribed anti-anxiety meds and pills to help me sleep, I guess that's the first time I realized how fucking awesome it is to be fucked up. Because for once, my mind just shut down. My whole body was down, and I felt nothing. It was like all my tension, all my worries, all my anxiety was just gone, pressed down so deep in my body that I didn't even remember it had ever been there. I was so naturally up, that I wanted to go down. My boyfriend would talk about coke, how if he were to use, that would be his drug of choice. I asked him why, and he told me that you feel so awake and clear, and amazing. I didn't understand, it sounded horrible to me. Why would I want to be amped up when I'm like that all the time, and it only drives me nuts? I guess when you don't sleep and lie in your bed for hours with your mind running for days, you don't really have the desire to use something that will just make it worse. My mind moving so quick was the problem, I just wanted to be gone. To feel calm and sleepy and numb. My normally tight body was suddenly loose. I'd take a couple pills, and put on some music and just fucking dance. All I could feel was the beat of the music, and the sway of my hips. And then, when the music finally lulled me to sleep, I would surrender to it willingly. Oh yeah, and did I mention that when you feel this good, the only thing that could feel better, is sex? So that's all I wanted, to fuck, get fucked up, and to dance. But I was single at the time and not a slut, so you do the math. The funny thing is, that sleeping pills and Xanax would still be my drug of choice. That is, if I had a choice anymore.

You see, even though I don't like my current selection as much, it's what I'm hooked to. Something that at first was a choice I made. It's what was there when I didn't have another option. It was there when I needed something to numb the pain. But now, without it, it's my biggest source of pain. And not just psychologically, but physically. Sleeping pills and Xanax, although a better high in my opinion, never had me hooked. I never needed them, and still don't. If they were in front of me, I wouldn't turn them down, but if they aren't then it's still no big deal. I mean, I think about them from time to time, wishing I had some. But not desperately wishing I had some.

So after my dad died, and I was lost and hurt and aching and rotting from the inside out, I would lie in bed, wondering what I could do to kill the pain. And then it came to me, pain killers. Plain and simple. By association, I knew tons of people totally addicted to them, and they weren't hard to find for nothing. You'd think after seeing these people's lives torn apart by it, I would have thought twice. But I didn't. Yep, I actually planned for a couple of weeks, to start using until I couldn't feel anything. And that's what I did.

At first it was small, even just a little and I was fucked up. There were times where I thought to myself, "Nah, there's no point in doing any today." I could have stopped easily, but the other voice in my mind, Jenna, always said she didn't want to stop. And to be honest, I didn't either. I could have easily walked away, but I wanted to stay. And so I did.

But now, when I need more and more to keep me leveled, when I wake up with pain shooting through my entire body, mind dull, I wish more than anything I could stop. But how do I stop, when the whole reason my body hurts so bad, is because I've gone without for more than a few hours? It's like in exchange for killing the pain in my mind, I've had to taken on the physical pain of withdrawal. I want more than anything in the world to stop. Even more than recovering from bulimia. And believe me, I've tried. I've spent the last couple of weeks waking up and trying. But it's so hard to quit when you can barely move, and know that you probably won't be 'functioning' for another week without using. When people around you expect you to be up and about doing things, keeping up your responsibilities, and you can't even stand up, how do you quit? If they knew, it wouldn't be so bad. But not only do I have to keep my using a secret, but if I'm withdrawing, I have to keep that a secret too.

So it's become this vicious cycle. I want to stop, so I don't have to hide anymore. But stopping means hiding something even more obvious, so to hide that, I have to use. And so it goes.

I should have walked away when I had the choice.

No.

I should have never fucking started.

secrecy, once accepted, becomes an addiction.

Have you ever had a secret? One that's so big you can't tell even the closest people? Probably, because everybody has at some point. And if you're like me, you don't go around announcing to everyone how you stuff your face and puke it all out the next minute, or that you hide out in the bathroom with the water on to hide the fact that you've been crushing and snorting pills for five months without anyone knowing.
But what happens when these secrets, these secret addictions are about to rip you apart? How can I ask for help when nobody knows? I don't want my boyfriend to know how fucked up I really am, I don't want my mom and brothers to have to have the burden of my problems, we've all been through enough this year. And once it's all out in the open, there's no going back to secrecy. Not really at least. Somebody will always be watching, listening, looking for the signs that I'm lying, that I'm not sober, that I'm still bulimic. That I've gone back to hiding what I just came clean about all over again And honestly, I'm surprised they can't see it now, I must be a good liar. I should play poker. But once your secrets are out, once they aren't just your to hold on to, if you ever go back to them, that's all you'll ever be. A liar. And a disappointment at that. Haaah, then I'd be the lying disappointing bulimic drug addict daughter that nobody wants to have to deal with.

Kind of sad.

So this is why, once you accept these secrets, and acknowledge that as long as their only yours, they will be another one of your addictions. Cause I mean, you'll hide them as much as you hide your habits. And the secrecy will tear you apart just like your habits. And what's a secret, if you tell? Not a secret anymore.

There's another adjective i forgot should be on my resume.

Secretive.

moving on is a simple thing, what it leaves behind is hard.

This is what happens every time I start something, try to get better, try to do something with what I've been dealt to help myself, and hopefully to help others. I start, with so much dedication and drive, but within a few weeks, my ED loops me back in, my addiction dictates how I function, and then I eventually give up because I can't seem to tell myself that I can do this, I can beat this. I say I can, but deep down, I don't really believe in myself  anymore. I started and restarted this blog in hopes to write my way through recovering from an excruciatingly long run of bulimia, and to maybe have someone, even if it's just one person reading even just one of my posts, feel like they aren't alone. That there's tons of us out here looking for someone to resuscitate them. But somehow on the way, I've just give up twice. And as soon as things got tough, I cracked. Instead of grieving the loss of my dad the healthy way, I snort drugs until I can't feel any pain. I'm no role model, and I shouldn't even have a blog. What is anyone going to take from me? That I'm a bulimic who tries to recover and ends up with a severe drug addiction on top of everything? I'm pathetic and nobody should look up to me, nobody should read this and think that I'm any example of anything. I wanted to encourage people. I wanted to give girls younger than me, less deep than me, hope that they can beat this. And all I've done is shown how weak I am. How I can't ever do what I set out to do. How I just let my problems walk all over me, let Jenna, the girl who's my reflection, control my life until I'm so beaten down I can't get back up.

I wish I knew why I just can't let go of this. Why I can't say good bye to my ED identity that is Jenna, for good. Is it because she's become so apart of me that I don't know how to live without her anymore? Can't live without her anymore? It can't be because I'm afraid of failure, I'm pretty used to that by now. I think it's because moving on, and letting her go, not living with my ED defining me, is so unfamiliar and uncertain. What if I get better, and I still think I'm fat, still think I'm ugly, still feel so worn down and tired? What if I let go of who I've become, to only feel the same or worse, just without my identity? Lost and alone. Because sometimes the only way I can deal with all of this is knowing that I am here, and Jenna is apart of me, keeping my going, even if it hurts like hell.

I think I'm just afraid that when I finally just simply let go, what's left after that will hurt. The process after will be hard, and long, and tiring. Afraid that it will all be for nothing.

So since I have nothing better to give to you, take this: don't look up to me. Don't read my posts and think I'm strong and can influence you to get better. You have to get better on your own. You have to pick yourself up and stop living and doing things because and for others. Because if you only try to recover because you read someone's blog, you're not doing it for the right reasons, you'll end up falling back down because you weren't ready. And in the end, pleasing other people is the whole fucking problem here anyways. So when you're ready, when you can finally accept that it's time to let go, don't be afraid, just do it. You only get one shot at this, and not going for it isn't benefiting you anyways.

Sorry about the gloom, have a good rest of the night (or morning? ahaha, drugs).