Missing in Sight

Cheers to complications!

noreply@blogger.com (Missing In Sight) — Sun, 29 Jan 2012 13:07:00 +0000

TRIGGER WARNING

********Talk of intimacy and sexuality *******

I told Therapist recently that I didn’t think the problem was with my marriage; it was with me. While the trouble with my marriage isn’t that it’s all me, all of it has to do with me. I don’t know any more if I dislike Husband, or I just want to be with someone else. I know for sure I don’t want to be married again, and I long for the days when we become independent and self-sufficient. And that will happen this semester when we are done with student teaching, we graduate, and enter the work force (hopefully).

The issue is more complicated. The issue is I want to be with a woman, not a man. Every time I am *with* Husband, I feel sullied and unclean. Recently we were intimate and I started crying the tears of a child half way through. When Husband had finished, the tears wouldn’t stop. We curled up and sobbed. Husband said he was sorry, but we commented that even though he’s sorry he keeps doing it; he keeps asking for it. He said it made it him feel like an abuser. And yet, he keeps asking. And that makes us look at him like an abuser, which makes intimacy even more difficult.

There is a woman in the vast outer reaches of our life with whom we are attracted. And it seems she is attracted to us. We saw her yesterday, and she hugged us twice. We get butterflies in the stomach when we think of her. And we think of her a lot.

And that is that. It’s complicated. Not all of us are on board with being with a woman. Leaving Husband? Maybe. But not because a woman is involved.

But, cheers to complications and shutting my eyes! They make the inertia of this life seem even less tolerable. *insert sarcasm*

The Bitch and the Blank

noreply@blogger.com (Missing In Sight) — Fri, 27 Jan 2012 02:43:00 +0000

No news on the separation with Husband. It hasn’t taken place yet. It’s just one day at a time. I don’t think I could live with myself if I left him. The guilt would sweep me away. I always wanted to be married for life. What does it say about me that I vowed my life to someone and now I want to say “just kidding”? I will feel like the ultimate failure.

In the meantime, I have other things to worry about. I am student teaching in my final semester of ungrad course work. It is a huge struggle, and I am dealing with feelings of frustration with silly Therapist. I was trying to explain to him how hard it is for me to student teach with my switching and lack of organizational skills and anxiety. All he could say was that it was great I was getting along with my Cooperating Teacher and the rest of the staff. I have so much crap stacked against me that I don’t see how it’s possible for me to succeed. Yet, he glosses over that. It’s like he won’t give in to my assessment of myself. He is either ignorant or stubborn. Maybe both. It’s frustrating and it feels invalidating. He just doesn’t get it. I want someone to understand and maybe agree, because it feels better than someone contradicting what I already know.

I have been blank lately. No feelings. No emotions. Desolate and abandoned. I hate feeling this way. I can connect to nothing. I know they are hiding scared. Growing up is so hard to do, and I don’t want to do it. And telling myself I don’t have what it takes to be a teacher is the only way I can feel anything right now. And I would rather hurt than feel nothing at all.

noreply@blogger.com (Missing In Sight) — Thu, 05 Jan 2012 01:36:00 +0000

I think my marriage to Husband is over.

hoy me rompe el corazón

noreply@blogger.com (Missing In Sight) — Sat, 31 Dec 2011 16:42:00 +0000

a little over a year ago i came face to face with one of my abusers. I wanted so badly for an apology. initially i received one, then he recanted. he claimed it didn’t happen.

today my birth mother is going to see her family, including this abuser who is her brother. I’m trying to understand how to feel about "the family" supporting him, wanting to see him. it's also disturbing that the birth mother would go and not stand up for her daughter. i’m confused. Parts of me are feeling defeated. How could the aunts and uncles, her brothers and sisters, want to associate with an abuser? Is there not enough love in their heart for me to hate their brother who hurt me?

I wanted to go with them for the visit. only just to scare him, intimidate him, and make the visit uncomfortable for him. but i thought in the end it would just hurt me worse than it would him. i thought the Littles would be traumatized by his presence and the rest of us would feel small again. helpless.

sadness is coiling around me, squeezing out the ever flickering light inside of me. i feel so betrayed, so alone, so . . . silenced.

noreply@blogger.com (Missing In Sight) — Thu, 29 Dec 2011 16:42:00 +0000

Forget that. I need to numb out. I need to escape. I'm not fit for survival. I'm trapped. There's too much damage and I'm all by myself.

Surviving Myself

noreply@blogger.com (Missing In Sight) — Thu, 29 Dec 2011 15:50:00 +0000

Despite myself and sabotaging my own efforts, I keep surviving. It isn’t pretty, but I’m doing it.

I read a post today from a regular blogger to whom I subscribe that reinforced her description of her blog. She related it was a pro-recovery blog, and so she was trying to keep everything positive in her posts. I have a different view of my blog. Recovery is never perfect, and, for me, infrequently positive. At least right now. So when I write, I share exactly what is going on with me: the good, the bad, and the ugly. If it is triggering, then I’m sorry. If it’s negative, I can’t control that. I have to be as authentic as I can, and that often means when I write it is not from a good place. So if this blog triggers you or takes you to a place in which you find it difficult to cope, I apologize.

I relate this, because I vaguely recall a post that was submitted recently, and I’m afraid the post was triggering. I do not know what this post was about. I never go back and read my posts, because I don’t want to be reminded of what I might not have written. But I have a funny feeling it might have been triggering. If so, I regret that it might have hurt people.

As I’ve ~~obsessed about~~ mentioned before, I am having horrible anxiety attacks, and they are related to food and weight. And right now I’m in the sticks of Tennessee where my in-laws specialize in anything deep fried, so it has been hard to navigate what to eat and what not.

For the first few days in Sticksville, I didn’t run because I didn’t know where the trails were. This town is the king of hills, and it is not safe to run on the streets. I finally found a trail, but it was on a riverbank that was disgusting and filthy. The trail itself was questionable; I couldn’t tell if I was running in mud or duck and dog poop. So the run was less than stellar.

But yesterday I found a trail that was beautiful and made me want to strap on my running shoes. The sun created twinkles on the lake, and the air was so crisp and clear to breathe. It was the run that saved me. It was 4.5 miles of grounding myself by listening to my feet pounding the pavement, hearing my heart beat, and focusing on my lungs expand and contract. I cleared my head of all non-sense. I saved myself by running.

My salvation lasted only a few hours, and then the anxiety returned, kicking me in the gut, seizing my thoughts, fueling my desire for escape, and rendering me useless. But that’s okay. For a few hours I felt like myself. And I realized in my darkest of darks, I can save myself. It’s not beautiful, and it’s not scripted. It seems to be rough and ugly, trial and error. But I’m saving myself! And I know if I’ve done it before, I can do it again.

Peace.

"End this sweet madness, all it's glorious sadness"

noreply@blogger.com (Missing In Sight) — Tue, 27 Dec 2011 00:29:00 +0000

That's from the song "Angel" by Sarah McLachlin

Warning: I’ve lost my mind. I can not be held responsible for the crap I spew out.

I suppose since no one reads this crap anyway I can say what I want. And what I say is purely none of your business, but I feel better when I say my shit and send it to the universe .

And today I won’t make sense. I am going to throw it out like the garbage that it is and not regret it. “We will not regret the past not wish to shut the door on it.” That’s what we say in our AA meetings and EDA meetings. But I do regret the past. I regret being born, I regret being abused, I regret gaining weight back. I regret everything.

My favorite tattoo reads, “For all sad words of tongue and pen, the saddest are these, ‘It might have been.’” I wonder what might have become of me if I had not been abused. I wonder what would have happened to that little girl had she not been hurt. I wonder what might have been of me. Would I be a capable, productive member of society? Would I have normal friendships and relationships? Would I not feel this innate, inconsolable loneliness?

We are out of town for the holidays and it isn’t a good idea for me to be away from home. I am very unhappy and I can only guess it’s my effing weight. I know everyone notices I am sad because they ask me if I’m alright. No, dammit. I am not alright. I am constantly worrying about everything I put in my mouth. Even the broiled broccoli for dinner was a sin.

And I have no suitable clothes to wear. I packed jeans in my suitcase but I can’t stand the way they feel against my skin. I can feel how large I am when my skin grazes against the fabric of my jeans. I hate them! So all I’ve been wearing are lounge wear and sweats. Clothes that I can’t feel myself in. My lounge wear is large and I can get lost in my clothes. And why I don’t know exactly how my abuse is linked to feeling my skin in my body, I do know that I can’t feel his hands on me when my clothes are huge and don’t hug the skin. When I’m smaller I don’t feel his hands between my legs, but I do now and it hurts, hurts, hurts. I feel his god damn hands and I don’t want to anymore. There are lots of us hear. Hurting. Crying. Needing some kind of release. The littles are here. The self-harmers are here. It’s all gone to hell.

Hi, my name is Sophie, and I was raped.

“Let me be empty, oh, and weightless, and maybe, I’ll find some peace tonight” ~ “Angel” by Sarah McLachlin

Scrooge It

noreply@blogger.com (Missing In Sight) — Sat, 24 Dec 2011 19:35:00 +0000

All Santa has brought me so far is a fever blister. Thanks, Santa.

I wrote in A Big Secret Wrapped in a Bow that I don’t celebrate the holidays. Never have. I thought I would be okay this holiday time, because I’m with family. Tomorrow more family will come, and there will be a big family dinner. No exchange of presents, though. Just people stuffing their faces with food.

So I thought I could handle it this time, but as I was looking at my regular Facebook account I grew very sad, crouched in the corner, and started bawling. Everyone on the Internet is wishing everyone else a merry Christmas and tossing around their happiness and joy. I don’t want to be a scrooge to that. In fact, a part of me wants to wish everyone a happy holiday too, but I can’t go against everything I was raised to believe and taught not to participate in. It wouldn’t be any easier celebrating the holidays. It would only make me feel guilty for going against something so ingrained in me. And it wouldn't bring about the feeling for which I wantonly crave; family togetherness.

I want to feel like I belong to what I believe is the spirit of family and holiday. I’ve come to understand I never will, no matter what relationship Birth Mother and I develop or how welcoming In-Laws are to me. My littles and adolescents will always bleed tears, because they didn’t feel that connection, that togetherness, that family bond growing up. And it hurts; it hurts so deep.

But for now, all I can do is wish you happiness, whether you find it with or without your family of origin.

Peace.

noreply@blogger.com (Missing In Sight) — Thu, 22 Dec 2011 17:09:00 +0000

There is something gravely missing inside me today. My tears search it out, but the magnificent hole is still stored inside my body. There is nothing left.

grasping at air

noreply@blogger.com (Missing In Sight) — Sat, 10 Dec 2011 12:35:00 +0000

there are f e w words.

went through R.A.D. self defense simulations yesterday

flashbacks terror crying

13 hours later still not okay

still crying still scared still terrified

need safe hugs need peace need for it all to go away

need to cope bad ideas in mind

need help need to talk but there are no words

i’m silenced just like then

oh, god, how i need help

NO SHIRT, NO SHOES, NO THERAPISTS

noreply@blogger.com (Missing In Sight) — Fri, 09 Dec 2011 11:49:00 +0000

I’m feeling particularly vulnerable these days. I don’t know why. I don’t ever know why, and that brings out the angry part of me. I am taking R.A.D. classes, which are self-defense classes. They are a series of four, and they have put me in situations where I have flashbacks or vague, foggy memories. Today is the last day. We go through simulations today where we are really “attacked” by police officers in protective gear. I am scared. At first the self-defense classes were empowering, but now they just make me want to cry. And I’m afraid I will cry today during simulations. I’m afraid I will be break down, go into a flashback, and nobody will ever find me again. Not even Therapist. Especially therapist.

He has hurt us. Again. We disclosed some very intimate details two sessions ago regarding why our head has been so foggy and we’ve been so dissociative, and he acted last session like he hadn’t heard what we told him. He asked us why we thought our head was foggy. We didn’t answer him, because we had already told him and was insulted he was asking us again. At the end of session we said he makes us sorry we ever tell him anything. I don’t know if it hurt his feelings, but I am not sorry that was our response. You don’t ask us to confide our most shameful and personal sides, and then tell or play like you don’t remember. It made it appear to us like he wasn’t paying attention to what we had revealed. I realize he could have been manipulating us to see what WE remember, but you don’t play games with us. Don’t test us. That’s not cool.

So we also met with Secondary Therapist this week for the first time in a few months. Back in late September/early October, we had a parting of the ways. Rather, she parted our ways. We had told her we were going to leave our Dietician, and she told us she couldn’t see us anymore. We were devastated. We had not seen that coming. We felt completely betrayed and abandoned. There was no reasoning with her. So that day we just left her office scared and in tears. We did go back to Dietician, but didn’t return to Secondary Therapist for a while. I was encouraged by my treatment team to call her to discuss what happened. I couldn’t choke back the tears enough to make my words make sense. Dietician spoke with her and strongly advised her we needed more help, so Secondary Therapist agreed to see us. That was Wednesday. It wasn’t easy. She said she had been giving us warnings along the way saying if we didn’t start getting better (gaining weight) she wouldn’t be able to see us. I don’t remember her ever warning us to that effect. So we decided if I lose weight or am not making progress that she will write out the consequences instead of just telling us because the words get lost in the head. I’m still bitter about it. Still feeling betrayed by her. Still feeling like I can’t trust her. But I acknowledge those things, so that gives us some place to start

So, as of right now, I don’t have one therapist I can trust or not feel manipulated by. It seems they always let you down, especially when you start to trust them.

noreply@blogger.com (Missing In Sight) — Wed, 30 Nov 2011 15:59:00 +0000

I'm sitting in class. I can't think or comprehend this class discussion. There is so much anxiety in my head. I'm totally lost.

Glimpses and Misses

noreply@blogger.com (Missing In Sight) — Fri, 25 Nov 2011 01:28:00 +0000

If you asked me what is wrong, I couldn’t tell you. I would want to tell you, but I wouldn’t be able to. I don’t know what is wrong; I only know something isn’t right. I’ve been feeling this way off and on for two weeks. The anxiety is palpable. It comes in waves and crashes. I become paralyzed, fearful, and teary.

There have been a few times, such as tonight, when I could trace the anxiety to a member, or trace it other times when the anxiety comes at night when I’m waiting for sleep to find me.

I saw Psychiatrist recently. He put me on an additional med, and I think it is helping with some of the depressive feelings I was having. But nothing is helping with the anxiety.

I’m losing time more. I’ve lost all this afternoon. I know “what” I did, because others have told me, but I do not have first-hand account of what took place. The last thing I remember is running a race today and taking the subway back to our car. I was with two other girls, and I remember thinking in my head “What if they really knew me” and I remember an off-balance feeling. The next thing I know I’m at home seven hours later, reading a book, and wondering how I got there.

It’s no wonder I’m switching given the amount of anxiety I feel. But I am completely controlled by emotions of which I can’t call my own. But I catch glimpses and it frightens me. But I have a vague awareness someone feels so deeply empty and irreparable. Even broken hearts continue to beat.

All the same, earlier tonight a movie came on tv that we used to watch when we were younger that would always evoke strong emotions from one of us. Tonight, we were taken back to that exact age and started crying for no apparent reason. It was like déjà vu.

While we can say there are one or two positive happenings in this, our life, there is still so much lacking. And we are at the proverbial crossroads. I am scared of what lies down both roads, both bends, and I am even more afraid to look. Most especially, I am afraid it won’t even matter which path we choose; we will still end up in the same crazy place.

noreply@blogger.com (Missing In Sight) — Fri, 18 Nov 2011 21:16:00 +0000

I've lost a whole day of time. I'm not okay.

A Big Secret Wrapped in a Bow

noreply@blogger.com (Missing In Sight) — Thu, 17 Nov 2011 00:29:00 +0000

I’m only half a person right now. You may poke and prod, dig around for the other half of Missing In Sight. You will not find her. You will find more, but you won’t find her. I’m the only one here, lost inside this head, peeking out behind her eyes.

I am numb, and it inspires recklessness and danger throughout me. The drive to feel pain is better than feeling nothing at all. Inexplicably, I am so numb that I want to numb out from the numbness. I want to take some pills that will put me to sleep for the night where I don’t have to deal with not feeling anything.

I’ve been feeling a far off irritability and distant frustration since Saturday night. I can pin point the exact moment I changed. The feeling just washed over me.

It’s quite possible and probable that my irritability is a result of my recent weight gain. Though my treatment team would say it is appropriate I gain weight, I can’t stand myself. I feel like I thunder through the halls at school and work. I don’t feel comfortable or safe in my own skin right now. I definitely feel like I’m in danger and flashbacks of one of the abusers are frequent.

I think it’s also possible this emotional instability is due to the holidays. The big secret wrapped in a bow is that we have never celebrated one holiday. No birthdays. No Christmas. No Thanksgiving. No nothing. The littles feel very hurt at this time of year because they have never played in what they see others do. They have never experienced what children might feel like on Christmas, waking up to lots of presents, peeking in stockings, smelling hot cocoa wafting through the cozy, snuggly house. The Bigs feel left out because they don’t know what it’s like to shop for others, to gather with family and watch movies together, to sit down to a special dinner with special plates and special glasses and special forks; To have enjoyable, happy and laughter filled dinner conversation; To feel the comfort and safety of family surrounding you, supporting you, loving you.

I feel sad for all of us. Even in the body’s adulthood, we still aren’t “allowed” to celebrate the holidays. It’s a power of wills between the members. And in this case, nobody wins.

Homeless goodbyes

noreply@blogger.com (Missing In Sight) — Wed, 09 Nov 2011 02:29:00 +0000

I’mma bout to have a panic ‘tack

My members have gone gangsta on me.

I’m feeling irritable tonight. I can’t say for sure why. I feel like I need to type the energy out through my nails. I completed a major project for school that is worth 25% of my grade and decided to take the rest of the night off. But nothing satisfies. Not football. Not music. Not my dogs. Not the letters from my students. I think having nothing absolutely pressing to work on gives me a chance to be idle and to sit with myself. And that just doesn’t do. I can’t be alone with my head at all.

My members have been out quite frequently. Even at times when I didn’t think I was feeling stressed they were swirling in my head, staked out behind my eyes, watching and observing, sucking the energy from my body. I went into my job today full of energy and hyper and high as a cat’s back, and soon I crashed. I could feel them taking over me. I started to get nervous. I could feel them inside me. I wasn’t feeling stressed. I don’t know why they were out.

Tonight I can’t settle down. I’m watching the clock till I can take my sleep meds. I really want to come off all my meds. I’ve been down this road before where I wanted to take myself off my meds, but I was met with disastrous outcomes. I know better, but I still play with the idea.

In ten minutes I can take my sleep meds.

This last month has been tumultuous, grand, exhilarating, and demoralizing. I was interning as a student teacher and it was a very difficult placement in the public schools. Every corner of my support failed me, except one of my favorite professors who thinks she understands me. She does understand me, she just doesn’t know “what” she understands. She doesn’t know I lose time, hear voices, see people, and feel people peering out behind my eyes. But she does know how to alter my assignments in a way that I can understand and be successful, which goes a long, long way.

The placement in the public school was difficult. And it brought out members that had been lying dormant for a while. I think the last time (oh, hell) the last time I remember noticing them out was when I broke up with a guy about 15 years ago. This man was abusive towards me. These members had been feminists then, and as they have returned recently, they continue to hate men. I’m noticing old fears creeping back up, old memories returning, old feelings of anger and hurt resurfacing. We are much more reactive to movement and cognizant of escape routes. We had a meeting with two of our professors, one whom I intensely dislike, and I had to sit in a pathway close to the door in case anything threatening happened.

Part of what I am wondering, more especially as I type this out, is whether the return to middle school had anything to do with activating those members. At first I thought my returning fears, time loss, and the general running around of the members had to do with my other professor for whom I have a strong dislike. This bad seed professor has been unprofessionally abusive, harsh, and overly critical of me, which has set up a difficult teacher/student relationship. So at first I thought he might have “tripped the wire” that brought out these other members.

Now I’m wondering if it was because I was interning in a middle school. Middle school has extremely unpleasant memories for me; more specifically, I was bullied, endured parental turmoil, raised the birth mother, and was abused my by neighbor at the same time. I hate middle school, so it is not a far stretch that some unpleasant memories and associations have been brought up for me.

Memories of the old bedroom and certain landmarks of the neighbor’s house have been brought back to life for me. I have felt myself shrinking back into a child that can’t handle things. Back to “that” child.

I’ve come to know that those memories and feelings will NEVER go away. There is always one waiting around the corner as soon as the current memory and association starts to fade. There is always another memory waiting for me, waiting to hurt me and remind me I will always be a damaged child stuck in the body of a damaged adult. I’ve come to learn there is no such thing as goodbye, because an old “hello” of a memory is always waiting for me.

Heroes needed. Apply here.

noreply@blogger.com (Missing In Sight) — Fri, 04 Nov 2011 01:17:00 +0000

I’m decompensating. I am fulfilling everything ever said about me.

In my internship as a 6^th grade Language Arts teacher, my parts have been out and I’ve lost time. My university supervisor has given me feedback regarding a comment he said I made to the students. It was a very demeaning, destructive comment. I have no recollection of saying anything so hurtful to my students.

He said, along with my cooperating teacher, that I can not handle stress, and I break down emotionally.

I could have saved them the paperwork. I already knew that.

It’s a hopeless situation. I don’t know how to handle stress. My reactions are reflexive. Always has been. Always will be..

And now, I’m facing my last semester of school. I don’t want to fall short of graduation by just one semester, but I honestly think I don’t have the ability to be a teacher. I don’t think there is any amount of cooperation I can establish among my parts to make teaching safe.

What devastates us so much is that we try twice as hard as other people but are only half as successful. We will never measure up. We will always be deficient.

I’m no longer a hero. How pathetic.

There I am

noreply@blogger.com (Missing In Sight) — Thu, 15 Sep 2011 01:31:00 +0000

There I am, found again.
Crouched in the corner letting no one in.

On my guard, keeping watch
against those memories that keep me caught

One final breath, and I will let go
No more hurts, you said I deserve so.

I just want to let go
please let me let go

I have a voice

noreply@blogger.com (Missing In Sight) — Mon, 25 Jul 2011 17:18:00 +0000

Yesterday was my long run. I ran 22 miles, and it was much better than last week when I hit the wall and became dizzy. Still, I don’t think I’m training smart. I did 11 miles on Saturday when I should have been resting; I could feel the fatigue in my legs yesterday. They were tired, and I had to push through the run. When I was finished the run my body was so sore and achy I was walking funny back to the car. I immediately came home to stretch, but Sam, my dog, was feeling left out. He decided to do some yoga, too. How could I say no to him?

(Sorry for the blur. My iPhone is broken.)

So what was I thinking on this long run? More recovery analogies? Actually, yes, but I will save those for another time. I was reflecting on how I have several postings I’ve completed but haven’t published. My reluctance in publishing them is that I feel no one would want to read them. I feel the writing isn’t good, the content is crap, and readers would be disappointed.

I play the comparison game a lot with my blog. I read a myriad of other blogs and see how large their readership is and how popular they are. They’re funny, they’re interesting, they’re engaging. I’m left feeling that nobody will care what I have to say, that my voice is unimportant, and my blog is boring.

I realize that the other blogs I read appeal to a broader community than my blog on dissociation and an eating disorder. The blogs I read, other than a handful of mental health blogs, are blogs on running and food. That type of blog just attracts a wider audience. In addition, they are professional bloggers. But still, I feel what I have to say is lifeless, bland, and unworthy of reading.

I know this is my blog and I can say what I want and how I want. But I feel it is your blog, too. If I wanted to write just to express my feelings, I would do that in my private journal. I write on this blog to share my life, my hopes, my successes/failures, and my story. It is my hope that the reader will be able to take something away from reading my words and that they can relate to me and realize they are not alone.

In writing this just now, I realized I am deciding for you, by not publishing my posts, what you find useful and interesting, and that is unfair to you. I do have a voice, and I shouldn’t shut it off because I predict you won’t want to hear it.

So I may not have the blogging success of others I read, but that doesn’t mean the blog I do have is a failure, I hope. This blog may not be perfect. It may lack style and a certain je ne sais quoi. And my thoughts definitely tumble over themselves, competing for attention, causing my writing to be frustrating and effortful. But I have a voice and it should be heard. And it is my wish that from my blog you will take what you need, find a little hope, and know you have a friend, crappy writing and all.

Long Run Ramblings

noreply@blogger.com (Missing In Sight) — Tue, 19 Jul 2011 21:44:00 +0000

This post is a couple of days late, but it’s still time for some long run ramblings on recovery.

To see other ways recovery is like running a marathon, look at 1/2 Marathon Musings and The Marathon of Recovery.

This past long run on Sunday, I was reflecting on how hitting a stride or pace in running is similar to hitting a stride in recovery. When I go out for a long run, it takes me 3-5 miles before I actually hit my stride, get into a comfortable pace, and “sit” back and enjoy the run. When I first start out running, it usually feels miserable. My legs rebel, my lungs don’t want to cooperate, and everything inside of me is telling me to turn around and ~~go to Dunkin Donuts~~ go home.

But I don’t give in or take the easy way out. I push through. I know that after my warm up and get into my run a few miles I will feel better and even enjoy the run.

I’ve found recovery to be similar. Sometimes you have to push through the uncomfortableness of the beginning of recovery to hit your stride.

I’ve been in varying stages and degrees of recovery before, and there’s one thing I’ve always noticed: taking that first step, getting help, and starting out is the hardest move. But once you’ve made step after step, mile after mile in recovery, it tends to get easier. Once you start opening yourself up to the process of following a meal plan, restoring yourself to a healthy weight, and working on the issues that brought you to your eating disorder, recovery starts to get better. After you’ve done your warm up and found your stride in recovery, the steps it takes to get healthy become second nature and less antagonistic.

Along the same lines, it’s true that in the marathon of recovery, we might tire out along the way, “hit the wall”, and stop, also known as relapse. This “stop” in recovery reminds me of a real stop I make during my long runs. There happens to be a McDonalds off the trail somewhere around the half way mark, and I stop in there to fill up my hydration belt and sneak a little free Coke Zero. The stop feels great! I’m out of the heat, I’m not pushing myself, I’m refreshing myself with ice water, and I have a brief rest period. But when I start the second half of my running, my body again doesn’t want to listen to me and demands that I stop. Still, I push through, though it takes some time again before I find my groove in running.

A relapse in recovery is no different. If we stop taking the steps and the miles we took in the beginning of recovery to start getting healthy, we are not going to want to start again. It is going to be that much harder to take the first step and find our running legs again. Our body, our ED, will rebel , making a run for recovery difficult.

So give yourself a chance to hit your stride in recovery, to get better. And once you do, don’t slow down, don’t stop. Continue in your groove. Keep going. If you take it step by step, mile by mile, your marathon of recovery will be successful.

Life in the stress lane

noreply@blogger.com (Missing In Sight) — Sat, 09 Jul 2011 21:15:00 +0000

First things first, I didn’t post yesterday, but got in a tough 8.5 mile run, with a 1 mile warm-up. When I finished my run, I decided to walk up the trail to the shopping center at the top of the hill where an Atlanta Bread Company lays waiting for me with an iced coffee. It is a 2 mile walk round trip.

The iced coffee wasn’t as good as Dunkin Donuts (sorry I cheated on you, DD), but I did find where they are putting in a new fro-yo store. Score, big time!

Today before my run, Husband met me at the trail and we had a 30 minute walk. I’m trying to get him more active and he agreed to do a run/walk 5k with me in October. I’m hoping a little exercise will improve the deep depression that has kidnapped him right now. Towards the beginning of the trail, we noticed a man flat on the ground with a pack of EMTs around him. We heard the sirens of the ambulance on the way. As everyone was giving the firefighters space to work on the downed man, we were all talking about how important hydrating ourselves is. This occurrence happened at 8:30 in the morning when it was only 73 degrees out, but high humidity.

So, my PSA today is to keep yourselves hydrated before, during, and after your run.

After our walk, I had a 4 mile recovery run. I wanted to get some mileage in today, but didn’t want to push it too much because my long run is tomorrow. I’m really looking forward to it.

I haven’t written in a few days because things in my life are a little . . . um . . . anxiety filled. I’ve not a shred of creativity and my brain feels depleted. I have things to write about, but when I sit down to type it out, the words escape me.

One of the biggest struggles I perceive in my life right now is Husband. He just finished his 12 rounds of ECT (Electro Convulsive Therapy). While, for a time I noticed a slight improvement in his mood, the last couple of days he has been extremely depressed and anxious and fearful. The effects of the ECT treatments have stressed not only him, but me as well, because I feel like I’m living with a child. His short term memory is fried, and he can’t remember answers to questions he asked me just five minutes prior. I am taking care of affairs that normally would fall to him and that he previously coped with better. He says he doesn’t feel like himself. He worries he will never be the same. I feel helpless.

I don’t know how to help him. We considered him returning to the hospital this weekend for inpatient treatment, but decided against it, since he sees his psychiatrist on Monday who can make a recommendation as to where to go from here with his treatment. They’ve restarted him on his anti-depressant, but that takes weeks to kick in. So it’s really hard to be positive right now. I can’t handle my own anxiety, much less help him with his.

On a better note, last night as I was running early to my appointment with Dietician (major epic fail session.), I noticed a sign for a bookstore in a shopping center. I <3 books, so I HAD to stop! When I walked in the bookstore, I saw that it was a new and USED bookstore, so my inner Book Snob immediately was judgmental at the thought of used books. But we looked around anyway and found our way to the Young Adult section. Surprisingly, most of the used books were in amazingly good condition and were 50% off the book price! Major score! Being tight on money, even in a used book store, we could only buy one book, so we found a book by Laurie Halse Anderson titled Prom. Though it’s not War and Peace or The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, it’s a really good, easy read and one I know my female students will like. My collection of loaner books for my students is growing larger, and I’m really stoked about having so many choices to offer them.

Lastly, as I was leaving the store, I noticed some chairs and tables lining the walkway outside the strip mall. They belonged to a store called Menchie’s, another fro-yo store! I went inside and they had all the amazing flavors and toppings that will do my fro-yo addiction proud. Score, again!

So, even though I’m living life in the stress lane, I’ve had some good runs, took Husband on a walk, found two new fro-yo stores, and an up-scale used bookstore.

Not bad for someone hanging on by a thread.

Thankful Thursday

noreply@blogger.com (Missing In Sight) — Thu, 07 Jul 2011 23:43:00 +0000

I’ve had a rough couple of days, filled with missing the Peachtree Road Race, crying, burning the easiest banana bread recipe, and feeling dissociative. So I’m proud to present for what I'm thankful:

I’m thankful my 3 day crying binge regarding the Peachtree Road Race is over.
I’m thankful my husband’s 12 ECT treatments were completed yesterday.
I’m thankful for my amazing treatment team, sans a psychiatrist.
I’m thankful for my dogs, who lick my proverbial wounds by curling up with me on the couch and making me feel safe and secure.
I’m thankful I’m going to visit my in-laws next week who will spoil me rotten.
I’m thankful I have a body that will let me run, and run, and run. “I just felt like running!”
I’m thankful that I just bought a book that I’m excited to read. This is a BRAND NEW book, and I’m thankful I could honor my inner Book Snob.
I’m thankful for you for reading my ramblings.

Tie Game

noreply@blogger.com (Missing In Sight) — Mon, 04 Jul 2011 21:58:00 +0000

It’s a tie game between me and the beast called the Peachtree Road Race. I didn’t win, but I didn’t lose.

It started this morning when I woke up at 5:00 to get myself ready for the Peachtree Road Race. I was tired, but otherwise feeling fine. I staggered got out of bed and stammered to the kitchen to make my pre-race breakfast. As soon as I popped my bagel in the toaster oven I began to feel a little nauseous. I figured it was pre-race jitters and would get better once I got down to the race; I wasn’t too concerned. As I sat down in the living room to call my cheering posse to make sure they were awake and were running on time, my nausea increased to the point where I asked Husband to get me a carbonated beverage. When he brought it to me, I was too ill to even drink it. I got off the phone and went into the bathroom, where I was not only nauseous but also having GI issues. As the next few minutes progressed, I grew worse. I was dizzy and shaking uncontrollably. I started feeling a tingling at the base of my scalp and my vision went black. The next thing I know Husband is sitting beside me on the floor calling my name. I had passed out. He carried me to the bed since I was still shaking and couldn’t walk straight so I could lie down.

As I lie in the bed, I wondered what could be wrong with me but came up with nothing. I had hydrated and fueled myself properly the two days prior to the race. I had received a good night’s sleep. I didn’t take any medication that was out of the norm. I had no idea what was wrong, but my symptoms weren’t getting any better. I feared I would never make it to the race in the shape I was. Normally I can run through anything, but when Husband asked me if would be able to go, I whimpered and tearfully told him no. I couldn’t even dress myself, much less make the effort to get to the race and run.

As I heard Husband on the phone with my cheer team alerting them we were going nowhere, I started feeling better. My nausea subsided and the room stopped spinning. I started to wonder if my symptoms were due to anxiety since they were receding at the knowledge of not racing. The visceral reaction I had experienced was retreating.

I was able to fall back asleep, albeit fitful rest. When I woke up around 7:00, I was a little wobbly, but otherwise okay. No nausea. No shaking. No dizziness. No tunnel vision. I made myself my pre-run breakfast again and contemplated what had happened to me. I had invested so much emotionally (not to mention financially) in running the PRR, that I was stunned and shocked not to be at the race. I couldn’t believe I was missing the world’s largest 10k, the race that was going to define me, the race that was going to prove that I was getting better, the race that would prove that I could handle life on life’s terms.

I alternated between berating myself for not pushing through the symptoms (how do you push through fainting?) and trying to find the silver lining of one of the darkest clouds I’d experienced in a while. Since insulting myself for symptoms beyond my control would only make me feel worse, I decided to do something positive. I thought if I couldn’t run the Peachtree, I would go run my own 10k. So I put on my Peachtree Road Race outfit, replete with my new socks and headband, and hit the trail running. I ran 8 glorious, exhilarating miles. No problems.

Given my symptoms this morning and the fact that I was able to still run 8 miles without incident, I’ve concluded that my symptoms were psychosomatic. Even though I was intellectually ready and prepped for the Peachtree, psychologically and subconsciously I perceived it to be too stressful and traumatic and so my fears manifested themselves somatically.

So, sadly, I wasn’t part of the racing community today, and I’m left feeling defeated, broken, and damaged. But I’m trying to look at the positives of the WHOLE Peachtree Road Race experience.

I took risks. Just signing up for the race was allowing myself the possibility to dream that I could run a large race like a “normal” person.
I went out of my element and drove myself to downtown Atlanta to join a group of runners to do a practice run of the course.
I took MARTA down to the Peachtree Road Race Expo, where I was packed in, elbow to elbow, with thousands of other runners picking up their race number and playing with new products and treats.
I am able to submit my race number to the Atlanta Track Club for a guaranteed spot in next year’s race.

I wrote in “More than just another race” that this race would prove that I can tolerate new, unfamiliar situations. I wrote that the race would be either the beast that I tame or that would eat me alive. Well, this year, I didn’t tame the beast, but it didn’t eat me alive either. In my list of positives, I did prove I could handle new, unfamiliar situations. Even though I didn’t have the success I wanted, there were moments of triumph along the way. Now, my hopes are set on next year, when I’ll have the opportunity to toe the start line with the beast again. Until then, I think the beast and I will just call it a tie for now.

More than just another race

noreply@blogger.com (Missing In Sight) — Sun, 03 Jul 2011 12:36:00 +0000

Tomorrow I run the Peachtree Road Race, the world’s largest 10k, and, frankly, I am terrified.

Wouldn’t you be? Look at all those people!

I’m not scared of the 6.2 miles; I’m scared of the unknown. Even though I’ve read all the Atlanta Track Club e-mails, studied the start and finish maps, examined photos of previous races, rode the MARTA system, and did a practice run on the course, I still have no idea what I’m doing or what to expect.

Six months ago, my fear of the unknown would have precluded me from signing up for the race. I never would have had the audacity to dream of running the Peachtree Road Race. Me? Driving the highways of Atlanta to a public rail station? Navigating the underbelly of Atlanta’s rail system? Fighting my way through a crowd of 60,000 runners, plus 150,000 family, friends, and onlookers? Not me. I ~~run~~ shy away from the unfamiliar.

So if I’m such a scaredy cat, why run this race? What makes this race so special?

Is it because of the 42,500 ripe, refreshing, sweet Georgia peaches asking for me at the finish line?

Is it because of the highly coveted Peachtree Road Race t-shirt that runners would sell their children for?

Tempting, but no.

· Or maybe it’s because I get to wait in line with tens of thousands of people who have to pee and take care of the common runner’s GI issues?

Maybe it's because of the unconscionable hot, humid, muggy, intense Georgia weather for which I want to risk heatstroke?

No. Not that either. Although it certainly adds to the appeal. But this race means more than that.

This race is a defining moment for me.

This race is either the beast that I will tame, or that will eat me alive.

This race means more than my Reeboks plowing across the finish line.

It means breaking out of my comfort zone and putting me in an uncomfortable situation.
It means the unknown.
It means surrounding me with a crowd I can’t control.
It means “running” toward the healthy, fulfilling life I want to live; free of an eating disorder and dissociative symptoms.
It means taking a risk, taking a chance, and not hiding from life anymore.
It means ripping me out of my comfort zone.
It means all that and more.

Mostly it means progress, and, even though I’m afraid of that too, these are risks I have to take to get better.

I’m ready for it. So I’m putting it all on the start line tomorrow. At 7:45, in Corral D, when the gun goes off, I’m proving to myself I can tolerate new, unfamiliar situations. I’m proving I can succeed in places that normally I would run from. I’m proving that my fears don’t have to dictate my life. I’m proving I can do what “normal” people do.

I saw a t-shirt at the Peachtree Expo from www.onemoremile.net that said (I paraphrase), It’s not that I finished the race, it’s that I started.

Bring it on, beastie!

V.I.B.

noreply@blogger.com (Missing In Sight) — Sat, 02 Jul 2011 20:48:00 +0000

V.I.B. = Very Important Blogger

So I came home recently and found a package in the mail for me. Now anytime it’s not a bill, junk mail, or a letter from my parole officer (jk) I am all too excited. And my cause of excitement this day was due to this package from Clif Bar, my favorite, mostly organic, pre and post-workout fuel.

Now I would like to snow myself into thinking that I am a V.I.B. and that Clif Bar has read my blog and heard of my running endeavors. Thus being so, naturally they would want to send me their products to rate and review so I could let my ~~massive~~ readership know how great they are, too. Yeah, right. I know better. I’m sure that one of the races or running groups to which I belong sold my information to Clif Bar, and I am one of many consumers that was mass marketed to promote their product and up their sales. But if Clif Bar only knew how I subsist on their products, they wouldn’t have wasted their product or postage to preach to the choir about how great their products are.

(Just a small sampling of my Clif products.)

But many of you are V.I.B’s to me, such as Ivory, Castorgirl, and Lisa. You read my rampant ramblings, send virtual hugs when I need them, send words of encouragement for my recovery, and in general offer your support. And for that, you make me a V.I.B. (very indebted blogger). Many thanks to all those who read this insanity.