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.  

i think the most common cause of insomnia is simple, it's loneliness.

So the last week it has seemed almost impossible to fall asleep. And when I finally do, I end up waking up around six in the morning and then cannot fall back to sleep. It drives me crazy because by the end of the day I am absolutely exhausted, yet I can't seem to convince my mind to shut off and let me fall into that blissful state that is sleep. Sleep has always worsened my depression which is why I was prescribed sleeping pills and Xanax at such a young age.

But now since I'm sober, I don't have the option to take pills to just go into that wonderful land of dreams and nothingness. Well, I do have the option, but I have chosen not to take it because I know for a fact that it would completely ruin my sobriety and send me right back into the arms of my beloved Oxycontin. So every night it has been a struggle to get to that place where everything is perfect and calm and just is.

I don't know what to do. Not sleeping worsens every bad feeling I have. Every trigger, depressed though, craving, anxious thought, everything is exacerbated by my insomnia.

If I don't sleep soon, I think I'm going to lose my mind.

music plays the moments, pauses the memories, stops the pain and rewinds happiness.

I've always been a music lover. Music has always been a way for me to cope. I listen to songs that express my mood or that inspire me. I've always loved songs that are eating disorder related, as seen by older posts about Marianas Trench. The lead singer is bulimic but also  had a heroin addiction. So after my own addiction developed, their songs took on a whole new meaning for me. I could related to them in both ways and I felt like they were written for me, about me, or by me. Something about his lyrics really touched my soul.

I could so easily feel his pain, his struggles, his triumphs, his set backs, etc. Every single word was etched into my own heart and mind.

Now that I am sober (almost 11 months!!!!!), some music is hard for me to listen to. I've always loved rap about dope dealing as well as songs about being an addict or using drugs. So it's sort of hard to listen to the ones that almost promote using. But I can't seem to stop myself. I love the songs too much to change the channel when they come on. They get stuck in my head.

I think I like them because they also give me this false boost in my confidence. I listen to them and remember my past when I was a somewhat big shot in the drug world. At least, behind scenes anyways. It takes me back to driving around selling or, more recently, buying. I just go right back to every single high moment where we'd drive around bumping music about drugs and just have a blast. It's like we glorified and intensified our use buy listening to songs about selling dope. So listening to them now it brings me back to those days when I thought I was so cool. It was like I had a secret that nobody else got to know. I felt special. It felt amazing to sort of know exactly what the songs where saying when most other people wouldn't make the connection. I felt like I was privy to top secret, cool kid information. And it almost gave me a bigger high than just being ripped did.

So I listen to them, I think, to try and acheive that same high again. I can't have the dope, but I can still have the songs about dope. And sometimes it does give me that same satisfaction. That same natural high.

But other times it's nothing more than a bad trigger. The music doesn't seem good enough and I want more. I think, this music would be better if I had some pills, coke, ice, whatever. And so starts a craving cycle.

I don't know if I should stop. Should I avoid any songs that make using seem like a dope thing to do (excuse the pun)? Or should I keep doing it. Sometimes I justify it by thinking that it's better to listen to the music than to actually go out and get high. I don't know. I'm so torn about this. I don't want to give it up. I feel like it's one of the last pieces I have of my addiction and I'm clinging on to them like they're my life.

Much love, xx.

progress is impossible without change; and those who cannot change their minds, cannot change anything.

So I've recently been pretty active on Blogger. I've gained two new follows, which is exciting. I'd be excited if even only one person read this mess of words about the craziness of my addiction and bulimia. I was reading a post on my blog when I realized that the layout I had for years didn't include an option for people to follow me, which is shitty because perhaps more people would have, had they had the option too. So I spent sometime changing it up so that it won't happen in the past. I appreciate and adore anyone who takes the time to read this, so I want to make it easy for them to do so regularly.

So in that process, I decided my whole blog format needs an update. It got me thinking about change. At first I was so reluctant to change it at all. I didn't want to lose the appearance it has had since day one. I didn't want to lose my trademark "Am I thin enough?" picture with the girl in handcuffs symbolizing how chained I am to my addiction and bulimia. I didn't want to change any of it.

But then I realized, how can I improve and work towards recovery, when I'm keeping everything the same. On the blog and in real life. It's not productive to view the same format that I had made in the depth of my addiction and bulimia. It needed a change, a refreshed look that inspires change and progress in my writing and in my life.

It got me thinking about change in general. I always thought I did well with change, until I was face to face with it and couldn't handle it. For anyone new I'll give a bit of a recap of my life leading to my addiction in 2011.

• My grandma passed away early in the year.
• My 8 year old dog who I adored as family passed away soon after.
• In October of that year, I got the worst news of my life. My dad had died. 
• I resisted change, threw myself into school (my dad valued education) and tried to forget.
• When I couldn't forget, I started planning. Let's just say oxys were always around as, uhm, 'gifts' to people who had money. They sat in my drawer and called to me for weeks. So I slowly started collecting some, ranging from Percs to 80's. 
• One night in December, I snorted my first line of oxy. It was daily from then on.
• I then lost my great aunt, two bulldogs (one of whom was my baby, my son, and my life) When I lost him, something in me snapped.
• I kept it mostly together to care for my little boy bulldog Bam. I got out of bed for him, So when he was gone, I was again overwhelmed with sadness and obliterated the feelings with drugs.

So it's clear to me now that instead of changing, I numbed everything out until reality came down and knocked me off my feet last year. Then again, instead of changing and getting my life together, I ran. I got kicked out and ran to my addict friends. I lived in my car, on addicts and dealer's couches. I hopped from place to place with my bag of cleans and pills. I preferred this life over change.

It wasn't until I could absolutely no longer deal with it that I realized that something had to give. I needed to change or I would die alone homeless in my car as my junkie 'friends' robbed me blind and left my dead body. (They did do something like that, minus the body. Well, not minus one a different time. Great people, eh?). And so I did. I got on methadone, got sober and went to treatment. And now almost ten months later, here I am still sober and alive. And completely changed.

So although I still sometimes resist change, I now better understand the importance of it and catch myself when I'm becoming to stuck. I feel like once and a while my recovery needs small changes and refreshers to keep me going. Especially because recovery itself is all about change. I change who I am everyday on my search to learning who I truly am. So I have to update the small things to match the big change that goes on within me.

So now my blog is refreshed and ready to inspire my words, thoughts, and growth. So enjoy!

Much love, xx.

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.

drugs don't really fix anything, except for everything

so it's been several months since I've posted anything. my boyfriend found my blog and didn't know about the addiction he basically caused. but I can't blame him, it was me who snorted that sweet delicious oxy up my nose. it was me who decided smoking it was even better. now all I crave is a fat line and some tin foil, a lighter and an 80.

I know it's not 'right' to be an addict, but fuck it. I've been through so fucking much the past few years I deserve to get high and let the pain killers numb my sorrow.

want a recap? first my grandma died, then my dog of 8 years, then my dad. I thought that I had my fair share of death in one year. remember my post about "bring it on 2012'? but nope. then my sweet bulldog Callie died, followed by my two older brother's dad. and suddenly out of no where my own other bulldog who  was sweet, amazing, and so, so cute passed away suddenly from heart disease. my little man was the only good fucking thing left in my life.

what the fuck have I done to be filled with so much death?

a three year old bulldog who did nothing but bring light into everyone's life didn't deserve to go. nobody I loved did. thank god I've never believed in god, because if there was one he wouldn't make someone hurt so much.

so fuck it, I guess I'm meant to suffer.

the only time I get some release is when I'm high, purging or drunk. so much for recovery.

I'm wasted now and all I want is some sort of release.

I'd be better off dead...at least I'd see my little man Bam again. And my dad and everyone else life has taken from me.

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.

'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.

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.

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.

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.