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.  

got a bunch of bad habits, and i wear 'em like a crown.

So just as I thought I was feeling better, a new wave of frustration hit me like a bus.

Firstly, some weird sketch bag was sexually harassing me via Twitter. So I blocked him and moved on. But it left a bad taste in my mouth. Like I'm the first to admit, I'm adventurous in bed, and am probably considered kinky to many. Plus, I'm bisexual, always have been, always will be. Though I've only ever been in relationships with guys. It's so frustrating that men assume that because I'm not straight or 'boring' in bed, that they can say stupid things to me acting like I'll sleep with them if they make a comment. I'm not a slut. I don't sleep around. I share that intimate part of me with a very select few. So although I'm fairly open about it, it doesn't mean I shout it to the world and share that knowledge and part of me with just anyone. Kinky does not equate promiscuity.

So right after that, my mom got a message on Facebook saying, "I need to talk to you right away". So of course I knew it'd be about me. Something I posted, something I said, lyrics I quoted, my recovery, etc. This for some reason struck a nerve, badly. It just enraged me. Partly because I instantly knew exactly what she'd bring up. There is a band called Down With Webster. They're Canadian and have a combination of rap and alternative rock. It's amazing.

One of their songs says, "Addicted to the lights and sounds. Got a bunch of bad habits and you wear em' like a crown. You're royalty around here baby, get down."

So I was listening to their music, and liked that particular line. Now back in my addiction it may have meant something completely different to me, in fact it did. I was proud of my addiction back then.  I thought I was bad ass, tough, cool shit. I wore my track marks like tattoos. But now, I take those lyrics in a much more positive way. There is this quote I love, that says something about a girl looking in the mirror after all the pain, scars, struggles and still is there and alive. So it says, "She straightened her crown, and walked away like a boss." That is how I now view these lyrics. To me it means I had all these habits, disorders, and now I have overcome them. I have no shame in them They are apart of me and my story. So of course I will wear my strength of my struggles like a crown. And my healed scars like a tattoo that shows all I've been through and have ended up on the other side of.

But of course, to this woman, she probably assumes I've done something or am slipping up and feels the need to tell my mom. I'm 23 years old. I'm an adult. You don't tell my mother on me, It's disrespectful. If you have something to say or are concerned, talk to me. 

This all goes back to that horrible pressure we feel to always be 'okay', to always have a smile on our faces because, god forbid, if we have a bad day, we're going to fall apart! This is so unrealistic and silly. Anyone who knows anything about this knows that if you don't have bad days, there's probably something wrong. It's normal to have ups and downs. And it's so fucking annoying that we all have to hide it and put on our happy masks just to reassure other people. We're trying to remove those masks. We're trying to be ourselves. So please, please, just let us do that! Let us frown when we need to, cry when we need to, scream, shout, yell when we need to. We need to feel all of our emotions authentically, not just the positive ones. Otherwise, we may as well be numbing them all again. Which isn't the goal. So I guess I'm just going to have to be myself and try to ignore when people react like that. It's the only way they'll learn that all feelings are okay feelings. And bad days happen. Recovery isn't easy and never will be.

So keep shining everyone. Don't let people's ignorance stop you from being you.

Much love, xx.

she can never go back and make some of the details pretty, all she can do is make the whole beautiful.

So in case you haven't heard, I've got some issues. I've got scars, scabs, bullet holes, stab wounds, puncture marks, track marks, a broken smile and a gaping black hole of pain. So no, I'm not perfect. Never was, never will be. But you know what? I don't give a flying high fuck.

So you want to know why? Probably not, but I'll tell you anyway.

 I realized, that me, and only me, should be at the top. I may still be climbing my way up from the underground, but don't you worry or doubt me. Cause I'll fucking make it up there. I'll be so high up there that every bitch, ex, loser, and scumbag that ever crossed me will be scared. And those who wrote me off, well, they'll be begging to be my friend. Good, let them beg. But they'll be begging for a lifetime because to me, loyalty, honestly, dedication and real love is key for me. If you didn't have it when I was at my lowest, you won't have it when I'm at the top. Sure, they'll pretend, but it's too late. I've already seen their true, ugly colours. And those who did have my back? The ones that were there for me when I was completely broken, ugly, damaged. Well I know they'll still be in my life, because they deserve to be.

Now, before you think I'm ranting and raving for no reason other than the fact that I'm into myself (haaa, yeah right, have you met anyone with bulimia who loves themselves?), let me tell you how I came to the above realization:

So you all know my ex. The love of my life, turned friend. If a friend is what you want to call it. He has a new "girlfriend" named Tiffany. Cheesy, skank-ass name. So after months of being terrified to check all social media, I finally grew the balls to check. I was so worried that I'd have a mean message from him, or worse, no messages at all. But there were some. They told me that he still loved me, that he hadn't loved anyone else since, and that he wasn't single, but that things were complicated. Anyway, long story short, we decided we'd talk, maybe be friends. Fast forward a bit, bitchany finds out that we're talking and decides to send me a message, demanding I no longer contact him. I didn't reply, why would I give her the satisfaction? But upon reviewing her message, I decided, "Wow, he could have done sooo much better." And I mean, no offence to this girl, it's not her fault she looks like a horse and acts like she's six. Well, sort of. The least he could have done was show some respect and throw a dime piece in my face. Then I'd understand. Then it got me thinking, why was I so upset? She's a downgrade, and he left me when I needed him most. I should only care about the people who have been there from the start, from the bottom, up. 

So I may be being a little nasty, and I may seem arrogant. But I see it differently. I see that they've been nailing it in my head at rehab, at every meeting, at every group that I am worth it, and maybe for the first time, I finally believe it. I finally realize that I am worth every bit of recovery, respect, love, understanding, compassion, etc. And after all the hard work I've accomplished getting and staying sober, I deserve to have a day  and a blog post where I rant in about how awesome I am.

Fuck, I deserve more than just a day. But I guess for tomorrow, I'll try to tone it down a bit. Maybe.

And even though I can't go back in time and fix everything and make it all pretty, I can move forward, learn to love myself and know that my whole is still beautiful. Imperfections and all.

i may not be where i want to be, but atleast i'm not where i used to be.

Wow.

 I haven't read this blog in ages. It's really bizarre to see what I was feeling and thinking at the depth of my addiction. My pain was so real, so apart. How did nobody see it throbbing off of me with every pained heartbeat?

My thoughts were warped by drugs. I can't even begin to understand the things I said or did, let alone understand why. Reading this made me sad for the girl I became. It brought up a lot of shame and regret from the past.

But it's sad to say that my using got worse, much worse. Eventually the oxys became generic, so the Neos didn't dictate use as much. As soon as I had access to the new generic crushable ones again, I started right back up with a vengeance. I was smoking them uncontrollably, getting up to 8 or 9 80mg pills per day. That would kill most people.  My lungs would burn without them. I'd wake up coughing, the only thing to calm the cough was the toxic, sweet smelling oxy smoke.

Eventually I ran out of money. The cost had skyrocketed. I started stealing, lying, manipulating. And when everyone finally figured it out, I had nothing left. No money, no dignity, no hope.

My mom kicked me out to the streets. My biggest fear came true, Ryan left the broken, shattered addict I had become. I don't blame him, I wasn't the girl he fell in love with 4 years before. Losing him and my mom took me over the edge, I didn't care about anything anymore, especially me.

I went from couch to couch, trying to get dope. I slept in my car most nights too. I used needles. I did meth. I did crack. I did so  many things I promised myself I would never do. I even let my "friends" stick needles in my neck when they couldn't find a vein. I wore my track marks like hickies on my neck proudly. I wanted everyone to see me for who I was. A lost, broken addict. The one thing I didn't do was sell myself. For  that I'm thankful.

I fell apart completely out there. But I also became a survivor. You have to gain a different type of strength to make it out on the streets. I think it's that strength that finally got me sober.

And I still am today. On May 14th I'll be 9 months clean. I feat I have never dreamed I'd actually reach. But I did it. I picked myself back up and tried to live again. I'm still not perfect, I want to use every single day.  But I don't, and that's what counts.

Ryan is still not mine. But we're talking, and that's more than I can ask for. And my bulimia is still bad too, but that's a story for another day.