Solving a Problem by Creating a New One

Rehashing through my sexual history can seem amusing or entertaining to most (sometimes to me too,) but quite honestly it takes quite a mental toll on me. 

I’ve been busy fucking up my relationship and trying to keep it together. Quite the hypocrite aren’t I? ( not really fucking it up, I’ve just been PMSing and shit has been rough my depression blah blah blah trouble in paradise.) 

ANYWHO my brain had to take a break from Paul. I don’t think about or talk about him… So yeah I needed to set that aside for a little while. Writing helps me sort through things. Sift out the tiny details that I missed or make sense of a situation I was too close to to understand. When I wrote about my past and my experiences it’s not always pleasant. It needs to be done though, it does help me ventilate issues I won’t talk about. 

One of the major issues in my life besides my taste in men and my skanky decisions, is my eating disorder. I suffered under its reign from 2005/2006 (that would have been my eighth grade year) till current (2015). I must admit, my eating has gotten better in the past two years but I still struggle and have bad months every once in a while. 

I never had a good body image or good self confidence. I was always the strawberry blonde, freckled, fat kid. I didn’t really become “attractive” per say until I reached my senior year of high school. (That’s my own opinion. I’ve been told otherwise.) My parents were going through a tough time after my eighth grade year. My grandfather had passed away whom I was very close with and my sister was off at college getting DUI’s and failing classes and spending lots of money. Plus my parents had their own issues. 

My dad would drive me to school in the morning and bitch about my sister and my mom. My anxiety and the pressure from listening to a 40 year old guys problems crippled me and a lot of times I’d throw up once inside the school. I always thought it was nerves or my anxiety or whatever but once I realized how much better I felt after throwing up I started to make myself throw up whenever I felt an anxiety attack coming. (I later learned it was a coping mechanism and sometimes a trigger for anxiety attacks.) 

Then after school my mom would pick me up and is listen to her. I was always back and forth between the two. A owl, a messenger a tennis ball being belted from one player to the next and crashing against the ground only to be whacked again. 

When a girl and her friends in the hall at school made vomiting noises at me after I came out of the bathroom I knew my habbit had gotten worse. 

You’re still fat,” I remember her saying the further I got away from her the better. But her words clung to the back of my brain like a leech and I’ll always remember that. I started making myself throw up more. Even when I wasn’t having anxiety. I was hiding it at home. I’d turn on the water in the bathroom and throw up. When that became a problem I learned how to throw up almost silently. 

By the end of my freshman year every time I threw up it felt worse and worse until one day I threw up blood. It terrified me so bad I stopped puking for a week. The next time I forced myself to puke my throat felt raw and tired. “I can’t keep doing this, what if I die,” I remember talking to myself. That was the first time I thought dying might not be so awful. 

A friend Tara, cut herself a lot and when she was trying to stop or ran out of room to cut herself in places that could be hidden she used a tight hair tie to snap her wrist when she felt the urge. Conditioning yourself to stop. It worked a little for me but I found the best way was not to eat. If I didn’t eat I’d have nothing to throw up. 

I had “solved” one problem and created another. How did I deal with my anxiety? I started cutting. It was easy to do. It made everything in my head go dark and quiet, like laying your head on cool tile in a dark bathroom when you have a migraine. 

By my sophomore year I had lost a significant amount of weight and had been rollerblading everyday at my brothers football practices. I got a lot of response from my family and friends and people at school. “You’re so thin,” “wow you got skinny so fast,” “you look the best you ever have,” “I was worried you’d turn out like your sister.” 

It only made me feel better. Reinforced my need to grow thinner. Vain. I know. Then it became so much more. Every time my parents would fight or use me for a councilor I wanted to disappear. I wanted to hide. I didn’t want anyone to talk to me about their problems because I could barely manage my own. 

My sister had gone to school out in west Texas and got a warrant out for her arrest for writing a hot check. I remember my dad blowing up. He was never happy. He made my younger brother cry. I didn’t want to talk to my dad, I didn’t want to exist when he was around. I was painfully aware of my parents financial situation. I knew how much they paid for everything. In stride, I never asked for anything. 

So when Kathleen told the people she told at our church who then told my parents they were ready to send me off to a inpatient treatment center. I felt so selfish and awful I didn’t deserve to recover or get help. It was too expensive. I objected till the final day that I walked into the facility and my parents turned me over. It felt as if I were punishing them financially for something I was doing to myself. 

I really hated myself for it and sometimes when I think about it, I still feel guilty for letting them try to help me. 

** image used with this post is not my own. It was downloaded from the interwebs. 

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Fuckboys, Older Guys, and Stupidity

If any of these Fuckboys* I talk about are as important as my current boyfriend it’s Gregory. Greg for short. We made out in the chapel at church. We fucked in the back of my car in the church parking lot. I gave him a blow job one of the empty class rooms and I can’t tell you how many times at Sunday mass we would go to the bathroom to make out. 

If any one is going to hell it’s definitely me. I just hope that fucker Greg has a seat far away from me. 

He’s a year older than me and I went for Greg because I couldn’t get to Kyle. (Kyle was a tall muscular swimmer who was a senior at the time I was a sophomore? So like 15) 

I had the BIGGEST crush on my Catholic wednsday teacher Matt. He was like 6’7 maybe 6’8. SUPER tall and handsome. Dark hair, muscular, lean, gorgeous smile. (I’m a fuck in sucker for a nice smile and pretty white teeth.) he would talk to me after class and would run his hand through my hair while talking to me. (I had really long naturally blonde hair then that was almost down to my waist.) He made me feel important. I would talk to him about my depression and my issues with the church and my eating disorder. I trusted him. A lot. There was one occasion (before Greg) where I stayed after class to clean up and we were talking about how I was doing and about my most recent breakup and he said (I will never forget this.) 

“If you were my girlfriend id treat you like a goddess.” 

I was speechless. I was just this awkward too skinny freckled little 15 year old and he was 22. I remember him sitting on a desk and I gave him a hug and he was still taller than me but he cupped his hand at the back of my neck and pulled my face towards his and RIGHT as he was about to kiss my lips he kisses my forehead and then hugged me and grabbed his stuff. We walked out together and I went home that night my panties wetter than they had ever been before. 

Maybe three weeks after that is when I started talking to Greg but we weren’t dating. My friend, Kathleen, who was super into art too, asked me about my weight and stuff and I talked to her and confesses that I was throwing up and miserable and depressed and she then told Matt and Johnny who were my teachers and they told my sister who was their age who then told my mom who then put me in a out patient program for bulimics. 

I stopped talking to Greg and wouldn’t talk to Matt or anyone in my religious class and at school I just hated everyone and felt so fat. 

I did however fall for a drug dealer who was a year above me. Israel, he was a loser and akward like me and we kissed, and had sex a few times and then we broke up. After that I dated a black guy Enzio, Zoe for short. I loved him FIERCELY. He was sweet and honest with me and just very caring. I have him head in an empty class room after school one day and we wound up having sex. We were inseparable until my dad found out he was black. 

My father is a racist and an asshole. I punched my wall I broke shit in my room I caused all kinds of chaos when he demanded I call and break up with him. I did it while crying and he told me it was okay, we could talk the next day at school. I did and he told me he wanted to end things. He said if my father was like that then we would have to hide our relationship and go through a lot of hell to stay together. 

That broke my heart and I spiraled into my eating disorder even worse. My mom was working a lot so she wasn’t really following my out patient program and my dad was pretty much in denial. So that summer before I turned 16 my mom sent me to an eating disorder clinic for in patient help. 

I gained SO much fucking weight that summer. I hated myself. The only person who called me while in out patient was Greg. When I got out I went back to starving myself and wanting to be thin again and Greg and I started dating. We were like two matches burning so strong and bright and fast just to fizzle out and turn our backs on each other. We always went back to each other though. 

During one of our worse break ups because I found out he was doing drugs, I started dating his friend Frank. Frank was shorter than me, was a virgin and very into his church. I think I ruined him. I took his virginity, we snuck around and he got into trouble with his parents and by the end of our relationship he wouldn’t tell me he cared about me. We never said “I love you.” We always said “I care about you a lot. Good night/good bye/good morning. It hurt me but I ended our relationship because I could feel his disdain for me. 

Having sex was mutual but it meant something to him. To me? I was just trying to feel something at that point. We both knew it. I had chopped off my hair, gained 40 lbs from out patient and following my program. That was partially after outpatient and at the beginning of my junior year. 

I spent a few weeks in Santa Monica with my cousin. I smoked some heroin. I know. I know. It’s fucked up and who the fuck even does that? I learned a lot but apparently not enough because my taste for drugs grew. When I started school again After thanksgiving or Christmas I don’t remember.. I started hanging out with Felicia a lot. She got me snorting adderal and taking vivanse and smoking weed, I was peer pressured into speed and all other kinds of drugs. I lost a ton of weight really fast and me and Greg got involved again. 

He was finally clean and there I was fucking up and taking my turn experiencing drugs. He got me to tone down the drugs and my eating disorder. I can’t say he didn’t do anything to help me. He tried really hard. He did cheat on me though. I found out and we broke up for the umpteenth time. Shocker. 

That summer I hung out with Felicia and Farrah a lot. Hung out more with Felicia than I did Farrah. I got into plenty of trouble but I don’t really remember having sex with anyone except for Patrick during that time. 

Once my senior year started all hell broke lose. He put me through hell and treated me in unspeakable ways. He was the first abusive relationship and just the tip of the ice berg of a few more abusive relationships to come. 

* fuckboys: like the word “slut” but for boys. To be when I hear “fuckboy” I just think of a guy who I fucked and it didn’t work out because of reasons? (I dunno I’m drunk and doing my best Bc I forgot to add the “fuckboy” explanation to my draft. *