her fat ego makes me think she has a thin mind.

http://substanceforyou.com/body-shamers-be-ashamed-of-yourself/

Still not having a good day, but the good news is I have written an article taking on body shamers in the hopes that people will be more body positive. Please read and like it, or recommend it on here. I appreciate all your love and support, especially on days like this.

her forever exhaustion written clearly on her once flawless face.

Back When She Was Beautiful: Part One

She was beautiful once. It was a long time ago. Before she sold her soul to the monster. The devil. It was back when her eyes sparkled with life and love. Before the light burnt out and the life was stolen from her. Stolen and given away to the pills. To the needle. To the tin foil and the pipes. To the street. She once strove for thinness, cursed with curves. But now she's too skinny. All ribs, gaunt, hollow face. Her porcelain skin once glowing, now pale and marked. The scars she sliced into her arm now match the scars on her heart and soul. Cuts that sliced deeply inside and out. The needle she's become a slave to punctures her skin, piercing her veins, leaving track marks down her neck. Down her mind. A complexion once clear is marked with blemishes, imperfections. Dark circles rim her dead eyes. Her forever exhaustion written clearly on her once flawless face. She thought dope would make her more stunning, perfect. She was wrong when she thought it would give her everything, back when she was beautiful.

it's not thinness or fat, it's life or death.

Here is my most recent post for the Substance For You website. :)

The definition of eating disorders is a broad term that encompasses the many types of eating disorders, including bulimia and anorexia nervosa, binge eating disorder, atypical anorexia and eating disorders not otherwise specified (EDNOS). On their own eating disorders have the highest mortality rate of any mental illnesses and can result in serious health consequences, suicide, and death. That is to say, simply having only an eating disorder is extremely dangerous. They are even more dangerous when co-occurring with other mental illnesses.

Co-morbidity is defined as 'the presence of one or more additional disorders (or diseases) co-occurring with a primary disease or disorder'. Eating disorders have a high co-morbidity rate with other severe mental illnesses, such as depression, anxiety, obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD), and post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). Which means someone with an eating disorder is likely to suffer from other mental disorders along with whichever eating disorder they struggle with.

According to the National Eating Disorder Association (NEDA), substance abuse disorder has the highest co-morbidity rate along with eating disorders. NEDA states that nearly 50 percent of individuals with an eating disorder also abuse drugs and alcohol, which is a rate five times higher than the general population. This means that someone with an eating disorder of any type is five times more likely to develop an addiction than the average man or woman. Due to the fact that both eating disorders and addiction are correlated with higher instances of death, having both is extremely life-threatening and needs to be treated as soon as possible.

For me, I had my eating disorder long before my addiction came into the picture. I developed depression and anxiety as well at a very young age. I can't remember a time where I didn't feel some sort of depression or anxious feeling. I believe this along with extremely low self-esteem and a higher body weight, led to feelings of body dissatisfaction. This hatred for my body is the reason I went to extreme dieting to lose over 100 pounds in less than one year. This weight loss is also when my bulimia nervosa developed. It was so easy to fix any 'mistakes' I made in eating by purging anything I ate that was considered 'forbidden'. I no longer needed to worry about cheating on my diet because I had found this loophole in the system. I felt like I had discovered some secret ingredient to a perfect body and I continued this behaviour to this day, ignoring the negative effects it has had on my health.

That feeling of discovering something 'incredible' is almost the exact same feeling I had when I had my first line of Oxycontin. It was around five years after I developed bulimia that I started using opiates to numb any pain I felt. I dealt with a lot of death in a short span of time and drugs were my way to cope. I couldn't bear losing my grandma, dog, and dad all in a few months. I promised myself I would finish school to make my dad proud, at any cost. My freedom was that cost.

I started using in December of 2011 around exam time. I needed to be up studying for most of the night. Having been dating someone who was involved in the drug lifestyle, I knew all about Oxy's and how dangerous they were. I had seen up close the toll they took on people's lives. But for some reason, I didn't care. Or maybe I did care but I thought I was intelligent enought to trick the system and be just fine. Regardless of what I thought would happen, I knew two things. One was that they would help me stay awake studying. I knew that if I did a line here or there, my grades would sky rocket. And two, I knew I'd feel much better than I did at the time. I felt so alone and depressed, I think I was willing to try anything, no matter how bad it was for me.

For a time using worked wonders in my life. My grades improved immensely for a while. I would stay up rocked out of my mind studying and doing assignments all night and actually enjoying it. I would go to class feeling amazing. The drugs heightened everything and boring classes became these incredible lectures that I needed to hear. I no longer felt depressed. In fact, I felt pretty amazing. I remember my brother making a comment to my mom about how well I was doing with my dad's passing. I even recall laughing about that comment to myself in a sick way.

'Ha! If only they knew my secret!' I thought.

Not only did my mood and grades improve, my weight loss did too. Using pills made me feel somewhat full all the time. I felt absolutely no desire to eat anything. As long as I was high, I didn't need anything else at all. Sometimes I would even do too much and would be too sick to eat. Those moments of what I considered sickness was only a hint at was coming my way.

The first time I felt withdrawal I didn't know what it was. I woke up feeling sick, fidgety and sore. I couldn't keep anything down and I could not stay still for the life of me. My legs jumped around, completely restless. I didn't think anything of it because almost as soon as I got up, I was doing lines of Oxy. It took a while for me to connect the dots: if I use, that feeling goes away. If I was smart, I would have gotten out then before it was too late, but I didn't.

My addiction fed into my eating disorder for another three to four years. I would wake up, use, not eat, study, binge, purge, use, starve. Repeat. After a while though, the positive effects of using wore off. It took more and more to get high. More and more to feel normal. I had never felt anything like the sickness I felt when I didn't have any drugs. But my weight was extremely low, so I didn't care. I didn't care about living or dying, as long as I was thin and somewhat high, life was okay. I started missing more and more school and spending more and more money on dope. Things were starting to fall apart all ready. My grades went down to an all time low. I had to drop out of classes because I missed to many classes and had no idea what I was doing. My life was getting chaotic and out of control.

My dysfunctional relationship was getting more dysfunctional by the day. He was a drinker and my dealer (although he didn't know it at the time) and the more we abused substances together, the more erratic our relationship got. I wouldn't consider him abusive, but many would. I was okay with it though, because when I would get high, I would get mean. I'd even fight back when things got violent. And as much as I loved him, I needed him more. I completely started to use him because I knew no other way to get drugs. My eating disorder and addiction became more important than he and my family did. I didn't care about anyone. Not even myself. I wanted to punish myself for all the horrible things I had been doing by doing more and more.

Eventually my mom and ex-boyfriend gave me an ultimatum: get help or get out. So I checked myself into detox, paid for by both my mom and ex. I stayed for the five days in excruciating pain, planning the day I'd get out so I could get some more drugs. Finally the day came when I was released. My first stop was to pick up two new friends who were addicts too. This is when I first stuck a needle in my arm. I had gone through the progression of using, from snorting to smoking to injecting. I knew that moment that there was no going back. I was a full-blown junkie and there was nothing that could change that. Or so I thought.

I hid my use for a month or so before being kicked out by first my mom and then my ex. I had no place to go except my car. I ended up homeless and couch surfing for about five months in 2014. At this time, any money I got went into my veins so I had no time or way of eating. My weight sank to an new all time low. I looked so sick, and part of me loved it. I loved the harsh look of my bones and track marks. I wore them with pride. But as time went on like this, I sank in to a lower depression. I started to hate myself and my life even more. I felt so hopeless that I wanted to die. All I wished for was an accidental; overdose so I wouldn't have to face my horrible life anymore.

Finally I got my wish. The 'friends' I was staying with assaulted me and threw me out. Broken, battered and alone, I sought help form my mom. I hadn't spoken to her in months and just the sound of her voice made me cry. I realized then how much I missed my family, my friends.

I finally got help, went to treatment for my addiction and traumas, found a Women for Sobriety chapter in my city and never looked back. I knew that I had to get help for my eating disorder as well, however, otherwise I would relapse. They fed into each other immensely, so I needed to treat both or risk being back out on the streets. I am currently still in outpatient treatment for my bulimia and am almost 11 months sober. I honestly couldn't be happier. I know there is a long way to go still, but I can truly say it is worth it.

One thing I know is that if someone is struggling with one of these mental illnesses, they need to seek help. And if someone is suffering from both, or has a different co-occurring disorder, your life is in serious jeopardy. I urge everyone to get help, it may be tough, but it's treatment or death. The statistics prove that the choice is isn't thinness or fat, high or not. It is life or death.  

sometimes you will never know the true value of a moment, until it becomes a memory.

So I've been looking through old Facebook pictures and I'm so shocked at many of them. I see them and instantly remember the exact time period in my life. I recall what I was doing, who I was with, and most importantly, how I felt. In so many of them I was almost too scared to post them because I honestly believed that I was so fat and gross.

Looking at them now it just makes me so sad for myself. I can see now how thin I really was. I was even borderline skinny. In one, you can especially see my collarbones sticking out like crazy.

See?!

It's so bizarre to me that in those moments I really, truly thought I was huge! It just shows how much bulimia really distorts your self-perception. I always knew it did, but to this degree is just shocking. It leaves me feeling a mixture of sadness and jealousy.

Sadness because I wish that I could have recognized how beautiful I was back then. Maybe things would have gone a little better. Maybe I wouldn't have turned to dope. Maybe I'd become eating disorder free. Maybe I'd be happy. Who knows. The possibilities are endless.

But at the same time, I look at these photos with such a strong sense of jealousy and anger. I think to myself, 'What an idiot! Didn't you see how good you had it?' and 'Wow, I'd die to be this weight again.'  I know this is extremely disordered thinking, but I can't help it. It just sort of causes this hatred for the weight I am now. It just makes me feel so giant. I don't even know how to deal with it. I don't want to delete the pictures, but I also can't let them get to me like this. It's unrealistic to ever think I can be my high school weight again.

I wish I could use it as a learning experience, but I'm not sure how. I know it shows how distorted my view is, so it should tell me that I'm not as fat as I think I am now. But you know how it is, eating disorders lie. Mirrors lie too. And Jenna's in my head telling me to starve myself until I'm that girl in the pictures again.

I just wish this was all over with. I wish I could just be normal and happy. In fact, I wish none of this ever happened, because I don't know how to overcome it.

twice the taste, half the calories.

Here is the second piece I wrote for the Substance for You website! It's based on living life with 'Mia' (bulimia). Normally I would call her Jenna (which is what I've named my bulimia identity) but for this piece, I wanted it to be easily understood and since bulimia is often refered to as Mia, I figured it'd be more straightforward than calling her Jenna like I usually do. I hope you like it! Let me know.

Spending My Life With Mia

I'd like to introduce you to my best friend, support, love and life, Mia. I met her over nine years ago when I was 14 years old. She came to me in a time of need and scooped me up in her arms, whispering, “Everything will be okay.” In that moment, I instantly trusted her with my life, my well-being. For a while, she kept her promise to me. She told me when to eat, or rather, when not to eat. She told me how often to exercise to achieve that perfect, skinny body I was yearning for. And when I slipped up and stuffed my 'fat' face, she taught me just how to fix it, teaching me to purge. “Twice the taste, half the calories,” she said. I didn't know then that she wasn't the friend I thought she was. She was helping me. She was the one that was responsible for all of the pounds of fat that were falling off my body. She was my source of strength, control, will-power, and happiness. She was the only one who understood my desire for a stick-thin frame.

I adored Mia, I thought she was this beautiful entity that chose me, seeing something special in me. I thought she saw my potential, my beauty, hidden behind those extra 100 pounds. I thought she was the definition of perfection and when she promised me that I would be just like her, I was taken. She knew she had me. And for a time, she was everything I had hoped for. But her kind advice and support quickly turned to malicious hatred and criticism. Not a day went by where she didn't have some sort of complaint. Even if I only had one apple for the whole day, Mia would call me a “fat, careless pig.” She would insult me until I was metaphorically on the ground begging for help. And then she would tell me to go to the gym until I burnt the apple and the some, off. I would always comply. It didn't matter what her demand was, I would do anything to absolve myself from the food crimes I had committed. I would do anything to change her hatred back into praise. I was like a battered woman, making excuses for Mia no matter how horribly she treated me. She would kick me while I was down and I would run back to her crying and begging for forgiveness. Sometimes she'd finally praise me after I had run for hours, purged all that I ate and restricted all day. She'd promise that she'd stop being so harsh, but by the next meal, she'd be back to her evil, hateful self.

On a particularly bad day, Mia was her usual alluring, charmingly evil self. As she did most days, she demanded I get on the scale. I complied, the need to know my weight now imprinted on my mind. I took a deep breath, preparing myself for the verbal abuse that was about to come my way. I knew I shouldn't have eaten that cereal last night. I stepped on, eyes closed. Mia beckoned me to open them, to look at the number that was taunting me from the scale. I gathered my courage and finally took a peak. In my mind I was ecstatic. I had lost XX pounds! “ Mia will be so happy”, I told myself. But I was wrong. Almost instantly she started in on me with harsh words and insults. She knew my weak spots, my insecurities and used them to her advantage. Our argument looked something like this:

“You really think XX pounds is good enough? Are you kidding me? You're pathetic.”

I'm sorry, I'll try harder. But at least I lost, right?

“You will try harder. You think you can just sit on your fat ass? That's not enough. You can't eat at all today. Not one calorie will enter that fat, ugly mouth of yours!”

You're right, I can't afford to eat today.

“You don't deserve to eat. Not today, or ever. No wonder nobody at school wants to be your friend. I wouldn't want to be friends with a weak, humongous worthless person like you!”

I'm sorry, I should have listened to you.

“If you can't follow simple instructions or simply control yourself, you don't deserve to be here. I think maybe you should just kill yourself. Nobody would even care.”

Maybe I will. I didn't meant to let you down. I let everyone down.

“No you won't. We both know you're to weak and pathetic to go through with it. You're nothing but a fat coward! I think you deserve a slower, more painful death. Much like the one I have planned for you.”

But I don't want to die, not really!

“Then why did you want me to stay? Didn't you know that bulimia is a death sentence? Idiot.”

At the time, I truly didn't know that Mia would kill me. She seemed so kind and caring in the beginning. She seemed like a miracle solution for perfection. It was that day that I knew she would never, ever be happy. I had achieved my goal weight, in fact, I had lost more than my goal weight. I worked out almost constantly and starved myself. But no matter what I did, Mia wasn't happy. She wanted more and more. She wanted lower numbers, more workouts, lower measurements, smaller sizes. She wanted me to waste away to nothing.

And all the while, she was taking up residence in my head. Slowly pushing my own identity out so that she could take over my body. The more she beat me down, the more I felt I needed her, so I let her in more and more. Each day was a cycle of weighing, starving, exercising, binging, purging, weighing, binging, purging, weighing, starving. I weighed myself more than 20 times a day. I weighed after every meal, binge, purge, workout or just when ever I 'felt fat.' My world revolved around numbers and calories, sizes and measurements. I spent hours upon hours in front of the mirror examining my body. I would pinch the fat, suck in my stomach, turn from side to side. I would stare and pick apart at my flaws. No matter how much I lost, my reflection always appeared huge. Mia had entered my mind and distorted my eye sight and self-perceptions. I turned to measuring tapes to try and figure out what I looked like, but they never seemed to match up. I literally had no idea what I looked like.

And to this day, I still can't decipher what I look like. I couldn't tell you if I weight 300 pounds or 90 pounds. But it really doesn't matter. I was just as sick at my highest weight as I was at my lowest. Bulimia, and eating disorders in general, do not discriminate. They will take all races, ages, genders and most importantly, shapes and sizes as their victims. Eating disorders will attack their victims slowly, withering them away to nothing.

Over time Mia became apart of me. I was no longer Jordyn, the loving daughter, intelligent student, talented equestrian. I was only on the sidelines while Mia took over my identity. I became nothing but my eating disorder. Every lie, manipulation, binge, purge, starvation was Mia's doing. I no longer knew who I was, what I liked doing, or who I wanted to become. All I knew was that I needed to be skinny. I only cared about numbers, food, and weight. Nothing else mattered.

Mia slowly isolated me from my friends, family, boyfriend and hobbies. School and horseback riding lost importance for me in comparison to bulimia. It was all I knew anymore. Thinking about not having Mia anymore sent me into a complete panic. Without her I literally would be nobody.

At least, I thought I would be nobody. It took nine years, millions of weigh-ins, binges, purges and calories burnt, but I have finally realized that Mia is only out to hurt and kill me. I still fear losing her, but I no longer want to live my days obsessed with weight and appearance. I might miss Mia a bit, but I won't miss the endless, exhausting cycle of starving, binging and purging. I won't miss the sore throats, the hair loss, the depression or the pain. I know now that I can be more than my bulimia. I know that I don't need Mia. I just need me.  

before you can see the light, you have to deal with the darkness.

So the last little while I've been feeling great. Optimistic, hopeful, inspired, determined, etc. But the last two days something has changed. I can't seem to put my finger on it. I've been taking my anti-depressants as prescribed, doing what I usually do, so I don't know what has changed. 

But I guess since I have been sober I get days like these. Days where all I think about is getting obliterated and not feeling a thing. Sinking into that beautiful place between dreams and reality. Nodding in and out, in and out. And hovering blissfully in between. These days are the ones when I won't eat a thing. It's like I'm so depressed and craving that high that the only other thing as satisfying to me is starving. There's even this song lyric I've always loved (sick or not) that says, "I feel like a super model who just skipped a meal." The song's about feeling great and on top of the world, so he says that as a good thing. And to me, not eating sometimes gives me this rush, this pride and satisfaction. The hunger pains act as a reminder of how "good" I've done by starving. 

So today again, all I thought about was opiates. Or meth. Opiates and meth, opiates and meth. Over and over again I switched back between the two, imaging the feeling. Remembering those feelings. The ones like nothing else in the world. And the more I try and stop it, the more it spins around in my head. An endless cycle. 

 The only thing that can quiet Roxy (addiction identity's name) who is locked in her cage begging to be let out is by asking Jenna (bulimia identity) to come out and play. So just for a moment, the thoughts, conversations, arguments, are only with me and Jenna. Just us two, like it used to be before Roxy showed up in my head. In a sick way I miss those times. Just me and her. She my best friend. I always imagined her to be beautiful, sexy, alluring, charming, intelligent. Basically everything I think I'm not. She's the gorgeous best friend you hang out with because maybe her beauty will rub off on you. So although I know she's the evil girl who wants me dead so she can take my place, I miss her being my only company. It seemed so much easier before Roxy came along throwing addiction into the mess of all my other mental illnesses. 

As if I didn't have enough issues before. You have no idea what it's like to have two powerful voices in your head telling you what to do, constantly criticizing you, bickering back and forth all day. Sometimes I forget I'm even in there. I think these are the days when I feel down. It's like if my mood is down, my voice gets quiet, sad. So the other two start to fill the silence. And it becomes so overwhelming that my real identity,  the shy, weaker one, has hidden away afraid to have to face them. On my good days, it's me who is taking the reins, it's me who is speaking up. But every once and a while, those old habits call to you, and I let them take control for a while. Sometimes it's like I just need a break. Recovery is hard work. So perhaps I'm just taking a rest, letting them run on autopilot while I heal and can take back over. 

So I'm going to get some rest, read a good book, have a spa day and recuperate. That way I can take back over and silent the evil girls in my head and get back on track to a healthy, happy recovery. I think I'll share this in group too. We talked about the eating disorder voice/identity last week and had homework to think about ours. Weird timing, having felt this.

Anyway, I wonder if they will ever go away. I want them to, but then I'm also terrified to let them go. 

Much love, xx.

By the way, I do not have split personality disorder (now called dissociative-identity disorder) or have different "voices" in my head. I simply have given each of my disorders an identity and name, mostly for writing purposes. But it also helps me differentiate between what is me and what is my disorder. It's like three people in my inner monologue. Me, Jenna, and Roxy. 

Here are two new pictures of me! Just thought I'd share what I look like now. I feel huge in them (at least, that's what Jenna says), but I've been told I look pretty. 

living is easy with closed eyes.

And then she recovered.......: So you think you want an eating disorder?



So I've fallen in love with this blog since it was recommended to me in treatment. I think the author is beautifully honest, inside and out.



I especially love this post because so many ignorant people or people who want to diet think it's funny to jokingly want an eating disorder. Sorry, but it's not a fucking joke. It's serious. It's painful.  It's deadly.



Sometimes when people say something as outrageous as that I just laugh at their stupidity and ignorance on the subject of eating disorders. But most days I want to scream in their faces and curse them out until they wished they hadn't said a fucking word about it. But I hold myself back, because I know that it isn't the way to get my point across. It isn't the way to educate.



So that's why I think this post is so vital, so important and so starkly and stunningly written. It tells every bit of truth about the horrors we face with eating disorders.



Check it out. Pass it on. It's a must read.

i'm standing on a line between giving up and seeing how much more she can take.

I know I'm supposed to be recording all my food/liquid intake. But I just can't bring myself to do it.

I can't bring myself to eat either. I ate too much this week already. I'll be happy if I stay below 500 calories to make up for the last few days.

I know this isn't productive and that I'm supposed to be making changes. I just am so afraid. I don't want to get fat.

I guess I'll go start on my homework for next group. Maybe it'll jog me back into optimism and reality. I hope so, I can't do this much longer.


P.S. I could really go for some dope. Any kind of dope. Meth, crack, pills, junk. Just something to make me forget that I'm so fucked up and too afraid to do anything about it.

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.

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.

an optimist stays up until midnight to see the new year in, a pessimist stays up to make sure the old year leaves.

So which one am I? (I know it's only 4:35am on New Years Eve, but I'm starting this year's celebration alittle earlier. Or I suppose, due to my new found habit, continuing the celebration from the night before).

I guess this year I'm a bit of both, as much as I'd like to be only an optimist, I'm also realistic (at least in some ways) and understand that I've never been much of a positive person. Plan for the worst, hope for the best.

See, this year, of all years has been a bit unusual for me. And mostly in a horrific way. Not only has Jenna taken over my life significantly this year, I've also lost alot of people that mean the world to me.

It all started fairly early in the year. My grandma, who was elderly became sick. The next thing I knew she was in the hospital, and a day later, she was gone. Over the last few years, as my disorder took over my body, I haven't been that close with my Grandma. This was the first lesson I got in making sure you always save time for those you love, you never know when you're going to lose them.

Next, and thankfully (or not, depending on how you see things) not as sudden, was my best friend, my brother, and my amazing dog Rogan. As a vegetarian, and an animal lover, I did see my furry friend, of eight years, as one of the closest people to me. I loved him so much. He was with my through thick and thin (literally and figurativey) and unlike everyone else around me, he loved me unconitionally and unjudgementally. He hit me harder than my grandma did. And unfortunately, his death was overshadowed, and didn't get the attention and greving it deserved.

But nothing, and I mean nothing hit as hard as the day I lost my dad. He was only 55 years old. With so many years ahead of him. My heart sank getting a text from my mom, telling me to come home immediately. I knew somehting was wrong, but she wouldn't tell me. I got a ride from my boyfriend, Ryan. There were five cop cars outside my house. No ambulance. I couldn't possibly imagine what could be going on. Was someone in trouble with the law? Was I?

I never in a million years guessed that my aunt would say, "Jordyn, your dad's dead." I could see sick, a heart attack or stroke (he'd had both in the past). But nothing prepared me for "dead." He was the most important person in my life. One of the only men I'll ever love, along with my brothers, and hopefully one day when (if) I'm married, husband.

The last few months since October 26th have been a blur. Filled with funerals, calls from collection angencies about my dad (news to everyone), crying, anger, eating, puking, drinking myself sick, and now, my newest way to forget. I can't see myself healing from this anytime soon. I don't know if I ever will.

And see, through all this I've really only lost myself. Through all this pain, self induced or death induced, I've moved towards ways to make me forget, make me not feel the pain I feel. I don't want to hurt. I've always hurt enough without everything else I've been through this year. I thought I couldn't recognize the person I saw in my reflection, but I was wrong. Now I see that I've just been seeing me disapear, as Jenna comes into view. But now, when I look at myself, I definitely don't know who's staring back at me. And this new girl, she scares me to death. I thought Jenna was scary, but this girl takes it to a whole new level.

And so I wonder, will I ever get Jenna back? Will I ever get me back? ANd this is why I'm both a pessimist and an optimist this year. I will stay awake all night, to see this horrible year leave me, and to welcome the new year in, hoping it will be better for me. For everyone. Hoping I'll finallly get everything my life put back in place.

So happy new year everyone. Enjoy your last night of 2011, and your first day of 2012.

Let's just fucking hope it isn't the end of the world like everyone says. Wouldn't that just blow.

i tell myself it's all in my head, but i'm pretty hard to convince.

The problem with taking psychology as you major, is you realize how fucked up you really are.

 It's bad enough I'm bulimic with a capital b, but did depression, anxiety, and borderline personality disorder have to get thrown into the mix too? And now, I have a voice in my head, who takes over my body sometimes, in the form of a girl named Jenna . Well most of the time really. Is that split personality? Or schizo? Both? I mean, she even has a name. I'm so screwed.

The last thing I need is a drug addiction on top of all that. And I'm not talking minor leaugues here. My habits are bad enough, I don't think my mind could possibly handle it. But then again, don't I sort of have two minds? They could share the burden of one more issue. Right?

This is what Jenna is telling me to convince me to do it.
It'll make you forget all you're problems, you'll feel great without my help for once.
"I don't know, Jenna. Don't I have enough to deal with already?"
How could you doubt me after everything I've done for you. You'd be fat without me.
"I know, but this isn't a good..."
She interrupts me now, screaming.
Listen to me! I'm never wrong, you know that! You won't feel the pain anymore. Won't miss your dad. Won't hate yourself. Won't think about how everything around you is falling apart. And did I mention you won't be hungry any more?

She had me and she knew it. So I said,

"Okay, I guess trust you."

But she was wrong, and I'm foolish for ever listening to a voice inside my head. I tried to tell myself this before it started, but I'm (she's) pretty hard to convince.

illusion is needed to disguise the emptiness within.

I'm so empty inside, I'm practically a bottomless pit, nothing will ever fill me up. Nothing will ever fill the void.
You know how people drop things into wells, and listen for the splash that signifies where it ends, how deep it is? I tried to do this to myself. Eating anything and everything, just trying to see how much it would take to fill me up. It didn't take me long to realize that although my belly might be full, the rest of me is still completely empty.
But I guess it's better to be one kind of full, than both kinds of empty.
Eating until I was stuffed was my illusion of fullness. Happiness. Being so full of food disguised the feeling of emptiness, long enough to keep me somewhat sane. Although, sane isn't exactly the best description of me. It made me feel slighty better.
Until Jenna got her way and made me throw it all up. Leaving me even more empty than before. I purged out the food, but any ounce of happiness, sanity, esteem, anything, came up with it. And over time, I'm realized that if I thought I was a bottomless pit, than what am I now? How is it possible to dig a bottomless pit even deeper, filling it with nothing more than more emptiness?

And worse? How will I ever be able to fill it all up? Will I always be empty? Will anything ever get better? Or will my soul always be nothing more, than a black hole?

warning – reflections in this mirror may be distorted by socially constructed ideas of beauty.

Today, like all other days, I spent a good 90% of my dad staring at my reflection. To an outsider I may seem completely self-absorbed and in love with myself. Self absorbed? Of course. In love with myself? You couldn't be more wrong.
Looking at myself is very much a love-hate relationship. I hate what I see when I see my reflection staring back at me, but for some reason I cannot look away. Am too afraid to look away. As if I'll gain 50 pounds in an instant if I take my eyes away from myself. As if Jenna is keeping an eye on me to monitor what I'm doing, criticizing, picking apart, and prodding at every single flaw she sees (and trust me, she sees alot that she wants to fix).

I'll use almost everything with even a tiny bit of reflective surface to analyze myself, to hear what Jenna has to say ("ew", "you're huge", "suck it in"). Mirrors, windows, stainless steel fridges, car doors (not recommended for those who suffer from an ED, it's like a fat mirror in a [not so] fun house-although the thin mirrors are quite pleasant). Everything.

You see, this is extremely hard to deal with. It's almost impossible to go places without my reflection staring back at me. And Jenna, as much as she loves to tear me apart, can't stand this fact. It's like she has occupied my body, but it's still me she sees stuck in the mirror, and she hates me. Thinks I'm weak, thinks I'm pathetic, thinks I'm disgustingly fat. And I guess the more someone tells you these things, the more you believe it's true. So now, instead of seeing what I think Ryan sees, or what my mom sees or whoever else sees, I see what Jenna sees. I see a blob of fat that keeps growing and growing, no matter how much I starve, no matter how much I purge, no matter how hard I try. And it's not just my fat body anymore, I hate my skin, I hate my hair, I hate my fake beautiful smile. I hate everything about myself.

So why does Jenna hate what she sees? Is her mind just distorted, like she's constantly looking into the [not so] funhouse fat mirror? Or is it that she's comparing me to all the people she sees in society. To the people she thinks Ryan thinks are beautiful.

I guess I'll never know the answer to this, but what I do know is that I wish she would just stop judging me so harshly. Stop comparing me to Megan Fox and all these unnaturally skinny toothpicks we're all supposed to think are amazing. These skinny girls who are airbrushed and photoshopped have issues just like me. So why the fuck do we look up to these bitches? I hope nobody's looking up to me.
I mean, what happened to girls like Marylin Monroe, who were a healthy, normal, gorgeous weight?
And furthermore, what happened to beauty being in the eye of the beholder? Why must we all see skinny as beautiful. Why can't we just BE?

I guess I'll never know that either, but I'm sure as hell going to try to just be me. Too bad if you don't like it. And to Jenna, if you don't like it, get the fuck out. It's my body, and I don't want you here anymore.

nothing is so fatiguing as the eternal hanging on of an uncompleted task.

I started this blog, god knows how many months ago, with a strong desire to drown my disorder, and save myself from her. I wanted to do whatever it takes to get rid of the bulimic alter ego that was dictating my life (she goes by Jenna) and to vote Jordyn into power again. But I guess I knew it would be an impossibly hard task. I mean, it's not every day people overthrow dictators. So, days and days went by, and I guess I just never got around to trying. I gave up at the first moment of weakness. Or maybe I didn't give up, maybe Jenna just saw my weakness and took her opportunity to force me to my knees again. And this time she made me want to stay there.

"Can't you see yourself? Look what you've let happen! I give you less than a day of freedom and you've already got us both fat. You may want to weigh 300 pounds, but I fucking don't." 
                                    I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. I promise I'll try harder.

"Do you want Ryan to leave us for someone skinnier?"
                                  No! He wouldn't do that, would he?
"You saw him looking at that girl today."
                                What the hell do I do?!

"Don't you see how tight your clothes are getting?"
                             I'm a cow. I'm so sorry.

"You fucked up. You ate too much."
                           Oh no, no, no, no. What do I do?

"I think you know how I want you to fix this. Get to a bathroom. NOW!"
                               I'll do anything for you. Thank you.

My disorder finds anyway she can to make me her slave. And I find myself fighter her less and less as time goes on. But coming accross this blog again, and looking at myself in the mirror-the real me, not my disorder- I can see how tired I look. How worn out I am, how ready I am to just give up. I don't want to live anymore if it means living like this.  I put off getting better. I procrastinated trying to recover. Maybe it's because I'm weak, maybe I'm just scared.

But one thing I've finally figured out is,
"Nothing is so fatiguing as the eternal hanging on of an uncompleted task."

So I guess there's only two options. I give up, and let her kill me. Or I get off my knees and try again. Really try this time. And take my life back.

I chose the later.