The Body Keeps the Score

I don't expect you to understand.

I'm doing amazing. My eating disorder is mostly in full remission. I never thought I'd get here. Just last week when this plan was being set into motion, my therapist said that with everything going on she would have expected me to relapse a long time ago. I'm hanging on. Actually, most days, I don't even second guess food or eating.

I'm crashing hard. I had to set my navigation to get to work so I could talk to my boss about taking a leave of absence. I've driven to this place every week for the past two (almost three) years and I couldn't remember where to go.

In the past 48 hours I've slept a total of one hour and 20 minutes. I have so much to get done and yet I can't seem to finalize anything.

Everywhere I look there is a reminder that I am the problem.

"Boys will be boys."
"What was she wearing?"
"He's such a good athlete."
"How much did they drink?"
"He has a wife and kids."
"It's just how things were."
"That was so long ago."
"Why bring it up now?"
"Making a big deal out of nothing."
"How could you not remember?"
"It was the 60's, 70's, 80's..."
"No one could be a politician."
"They gave him a pass."
"He has such a bright future."
"He was such a nice man."
"All the kids loved him."
"How come she's the only person bringing charges?"

The list goes on and on and on... sex abuse scandal after sex abuse scandal, allegation after allegation. Still, we belittle the victims claiming all they want is money or to ruin someone's life. What about her life? His life? Mine?

Last time I went to treatment I told myself it was the last time. Just like I do every time, but this time I meant it. You know what? I have to give myself credit because as far as the eating disorder goes, I think I did it. That was the last time.

My therapist keeps telling me to think of this as something different. I'm not going back for eating disorder support. I going back to fix the problem.

Since March I have been going to therapy at least twice a week and doing EMDR to work on trauma. The more processing I do about my trauma the more I remember and the more I realize how much I don't have answers. They keep telling me I have those answers. The body keeps the score. "You know everything you want to know, but your brain is protecting you until you're ready." Each week I get a little more of the picture. It's like a 10,000 piece puzzle all kept in fragments in different parts of my brain. What does that even mean? I just want to stop thinking that the answer lies in death.

Little Bella cries at night because she's scared. Teenaged Bella wants to self-harm and take pills to make it all disappear. Adult Bella gets angry because if these high profile cases are thrown out in court, what the fuck does that mean for me? Adult Bella is angry that she can't fix herself. Adult Bella is sad.

Why didn't I report?

I didn't report because the first time I was told it was just a game. The second time it was a relative. The third time he was older and he liked the way my boobs looked. Nine year old me thought it was awesome that a 17 year old was into me. The fourth time I was in love and I believed him when he told me I was a slut.

People judge me on the outside without knowing what's really happening on the inside. My scars tell a story you know nothing about. Still, all people care about is how ugly those scars are... no one cares about the ugly, disgusting, horrifying story behind them.

I'm not running away from my problems by going into treatment. I'm running full force into them. I know many people won't understand this and I don't expect you to. It's difficult to understand something that most would consider unfathomable. I pray you never have to be the one on this side of the keyboard. I pray you never have to be the one finding it difficult to understand when your loved one tells you this happened. I pray that if you are a survivor, you see yourself as just that and nothing less. I pray a lot lately, though sometimes it doesn't sound so much like prayer.

I know many people will judge. I also know that I've worked with my team for almost eight years and I trust them more than I trust myself.

I'm not so angry anymore, I'm just hurt. I'm lonely. Confused.

Please don't give up on me.

Ramblings....

I am so scared.


I'm a little girl, lost and afraid. I'm pleading for help but no one is around. Even the shadows on the wall scare me. I feel hopeless and alone. I sit, cry, and wait for help. Will they ever come get me?


I am on top of the world. I am nine, or maybe ten, and I am on top of the world... nothing can get me here.


But then it does. Why? I wore a low cut tan-kini top. Must've been why.


I am thirteen. I pour candle wax on my legs because I like the way it stings. It gives me something to focus on. I'm going to be a BMX superstar. I build a ramp. I go full speed off the ramp, flip forward half way and land on my back in the grass with my bicycle on top of me. I can do it right next time. I can do it right the next 20 times. I can't.


I can't do a lot of things at this point.


I can't play tennis. I can't lose weight. I can't stand how the spanx feel but I need to learn to suck my tummy in. I can't make myself look like the others on the beach. I can't drink milk anymore. I can't eat the things I like. I can eat before 4:30pm only. I can hide. I can throw up. I can fight werewolves in Michigan, it shows on my skin, but don't ask me how I have time for that.


I become Little Debbie. I look like her. I eat like her... or at least my entire Spanish class thinks so.


I turn inwards. I lose friends. I can't sleep at night without crying myself to sleep.


I may have found love. Or maybe love found me. Or maybe it was those shadows from my childhood disguised as love. They're coming to get me.


I can't go through all this again tonight. I need to rest.


I keep wracking my brain trying to figure out where things went wrong. What did I do wrong? How can I fix it? Though I wouldn't wish this on anyone else in the world, why was it me?


I ask for help. I answer a lot of questions but I only give half truths. I only share half the picture. The other parts are dark. I just can't remember. Why can't I remember? I need some fucking answers because I'm drowning in here. The water is past my mouth and I can't speak any longer. There's not much oxygen left and my chest feels tight. I want to sleep but I'm jerked awake in fear. Sometimes I wake up crying.


I am getting ready to start school again and I am terrified and excited. I feel like maybe I can do it this time though a part of me fears the monsters are back. Full force. I am hanging on. I am hanging on because I didn't die when I could have. I am hanging on because my friends are getting their six-month email, letting them know they've been out of treatment for half a year and that's a huge accomplishment. Mine should be coming soon and this makes me happy. I'm hanging on because even though I was three weeks late on rent this month, and with little food in the pantry, I am living on my own and I'm e x p a n d i n g  my support system. I'm hanging on because this year, when I went for my yearly check-up, I panicked a little but I didn't cry, and I allowed myself to go to someone I feel I can trust. I felt embarrassed about my panic, but I felt safe. I'm hanging on because I was accepted into Capella even though I was sure I wasn't going to be able to go back to school.


Some time in the future, this may all make sense. Or maybe it won't. I've come to realize you can never be sure of anything. Well, except death. But I try not to focus on that now.


I'm still that little girl, afraid and alone. Little Bella. I'm still the one that can't. I still turn inwards and cry. I still crave for something to focus on... something to tend to. Something to make it all go away. Except now I try to acknowledge where I am today. Sometimes that's sleeping with baby cologne on my blanket, sometimes that's cuddling my dog while I cry. Sometimes it's busting my ass at work. Sometimes that's allowing myself to speak full truths to my therapist and her allowing me the space to cry and wonder why. That's me-- Bella. That's the me that wants to believe that the best is yet to come. That may only be a half truth for now, but maybe in the future that will change. Maybe.


But without that maybe I lose all hope. I need to hang onto that maybe.

When Life Doesn't Go as Planned...

In 8th grade, I had to do a scrapbooking project as part of my final grade in English class. We were asked to put together a scrapbook and were given certain writing prompts to pick from to include in our books.

One of the ones I picked was about “where I [would] be 10 years from now”. At 13 I had to write about where I would be at 23... if you don’t want to read the whole thing below, I’ll give you a bulleted version:

•  Graduated college

•  Fulfill my perceived version of my fathers dreams and become a vet

•  Live on my own or with a fiancé and five dogs

•  Dream job

•  Other career options: doctor, animal cop, nurse, veterinary assistant

 

So, to be honest, at 23 I had like a fifth of one of my dreams checked off the list... actually, to be really honest, at 23 I did get my own place, and also had a suicide attempt that same year and had to give up having my own place.

So the path I took was nothing like what I thought, hoped or expected it to be. I don’t have a degree, or my dream job, I JUST moved out of my parents house a few months ago and I am not even in a relationship so fiancé isn’t even in the near future... and although this is not where I dreamt I would be, I still know that I am blessed and eternally grateful for where I am today.

If life had gone as planned, had I not shattered into a thousand different pieces, I wouldn’t have met all the wonderfully-imperfect people I’ve met today... the ones helping to put me back together again.

I’ve had to learn to be humble and ask for help when I need it. I’ve made mistakes and learned from them too. I’ve learned to set boundaries. I’ve had adventures some people never get to experience, sure, it may be because they happened in a hospital or residential treatment, but trust me— they are adventures nonetheless. Cue: “who left the bag of vomit in the stairwell?” And: telling stories of whose gone the longest without pooping.. adventures. No joke.

I’ve lost.. a lot. I’ve lost friends, family, money, time.. but I’ve gained my life, at least for now. And I know this is a moment of clarity because in reality I’ve been really depressed lately, but I am grateful to still be here and fighting this fight. I’ve also built relationships that I know will last a lifetime and have an outpatient team that supports me 100%. My therapist has been through hell and back with me and she still smiles when she opens the door to see me every week.. sometimes twice a week. If I had to sit and listen to myself talk in circles on a weekly basis for the past six years, I probably would have quit on me by now (but I guess that’s why I have her right?!).

I am grateful. I am blessed. I am not where I thought I would be, but I am much better than I could be. I may not have everything I want, but I have pretty much everything I need. And for those that have stuck around, thank you from the bottom of my heart. Congrats, you met and exceeded 13-year old me’s expectations! (see photo below)

Peace to you tonight—

Bella

On a Monster They Call “Ed”

They say that it gets better, 

But when will that day be? 

We’re holding it together, 

As we’re falling to our knees. 

Sending prayers to nowhere, 

Feeling so alone, 

One foot in front of the other,

Feeling worse, they say you’ve grown. 

“Grown in your recovery, not as bad as you once were,”

They keep saying all this nonsense, and still, it’s all a blur. 

Precariously we listen, follow and concede, 

Exceed the expectations, 

Trusting we’ll be freed. 

An alcoholic stops their drinking, 

A drug addict stops the pills, 

Not comparing illnesses—

It’s all about your will.

Your willingness to give in, 

Or your willingness to fight,

We’re fighting for recovery, 

And just to do what’s right.

Brittany, Heidi, Morgan, Steph—

A reminder to us all, 

This illness has no limits, 

It laughs each time we fall. 

“A cancer of the mind,” they say, 

A monster they call “Ed”, 

To me it seems as though

We should name him “Death” instead.

Yet death seems so appealing, 

When Depression’s in the game, 

That’s why I’m keeping tabs

On each of my friends names. 

Say them loud and say them clear, 

And let it all be known, 

That even though they fought for freedom

They’re now just names on stones. 

That’s why we can’t just give up, 

We have to fight like hell, 

Until this is a story of redemption, truth and courage..

and recovery as well.