When we talk about recovery, I think we have to remember that recovery must be an option for everybody, but it is an option, which means that not everybody will choose it, or be ready to.

Forcing people to recover when they aren't willing or ready to is just often just as cruel as whatever you deem they must recover from. You cannot recover for another person.

I say this because forcing recovery onto people is most likely pushing them further from recovery. You might think you're doing what's good for them, and that is admirable, but we have to have a sense of realism about recovery. Anybody can recover, but that doesn't mean everybody will.

Good day all. Since today is my 26th birthday, I’ve been doing a bit of reflecting & I thought it’d be fitting to share a part of myself I seldom talk about. A little over a week ago, it was the ninth anniversary of my admittance to rehab. I haven’t thought about my time there for a long while but for some reason this year I’ve been a little overwhelmed with emotion. I thought I’d write it all down and share a bit of it in hopes that it might help someone, whether it’s to shift their thinking or give them a little hope. 

I wrote the piece below almost 6 years ago but after reading over it I still find it one of the most eloquent things I might’ve tried to express. The reason I chose to share it is to say to anyone- if you are struggling and this time is testing your mental health and your strength, you are stronger than you think. A bad day doesn’t mean you are losing, it means you are coping and working hard at beating your own demons. 

I don’t talk about this side of my life a whole lot but it would be nice if you could share it if you resonate with it in some way or if you feel like you know someone who might. 

>>It gets a little long and there are TRIGGERS for eating disorders so please proceed with caution !!! << 

I do this thing where I often brush over my anorexia in conversation, and as expected, this might be the first time many of you are hearing of it. I just never felt the need to tell my story to the people in my life, I never wanted it to be the thing that everyone rolls their eyes about. 

However, I think it is time for me to tell my story. In full. What prompted me was that I have seen how my story became an inspiration for someone else; a reason for them to feel that they are not alone in the world. I was in awe that something so terrible in my life could be used for something so good.

This is the story of my eating disorder and I.

19 January, 2015

My mind was my body’s worst enemy. It was a weapon of mass destruction, ticking away in my head. Misconceptions invaded my mind and multiplied into thoughts and soon after their images were all I saw in the mirror.

I can’t give my mind all the credit; I didn’t create all the misconceptions in my own mind, even if they were all allowed to grow there. My mind only mimicked what it was being fed at just about every turn. One of the things I remember so vividly is seeing an underwear model. She was sexy and beautiful and I could think of nothing I wanted more in the world than her body. So started the worst train of thought I have ever had: the aspiration for perfection.

The media can be a scary thing. As a teenager, it was pretty much most of what everyone was talking about and consuming on a day to day basis. By the time I was in grade 10 in high school, all my time had been consumed by trying to getting the best grades and only producing my best work in my visual arts class. My time in the sports field ceased all together and in my mind the only way for me to achieve my standards of perfection was to go down the dark, sinister route that I had not even realised I'd taken.

On 26 October 2011, I was diagnosed with anorexia nervosa. There is no easy way to explain the feeling of your own head telling you that you are not good enough, that you are disgusting, that you are too fat, that you may not eat.

2011 was not a good year for me, I remember so well that a bad day would grow into a bad week and eventually evolve into bad months. My family seemed as dysfunctional as ever, I picked up the nasty habit of smoking and the stress of school had only weakened my state of mind. I hated what I was and I had somehow convinced myself that everyone else around me felt the same way, when in fact I was the one pushing them away. Sometime in mid October, armed robbers had broken into my house. No one in my family was hurt, but I had gotten away with a broken arm and a few bruises.

It was then in hospital that doctors had noticed there was something off about me. It must have been brain shattering for my parents to see what had been eating away at me for months only at that moment. How could they when all I did was hide from the world?

I was admitted into rehab after that and I did not sit for my November exams. In six months I had lost 14kgs. I have been in remission since.

My life was consumed by loss. First it was the weight, then my strength, and eventually demons began to nibble away at my personality. I watched my life crumble away as fast as my body did. My hair started to fall out and my nails stopped growing. I lost my period all together. My bones stuck out of my body like they were unwanted intruders, I became as frail, dead and dull as an old building.

Misconceptions are the hardest scars to heal. They forced my body apart from my mind. I have learned that it's called body disconnection, the feeling of being absolutely cut off from your body. No experience was good enough in my body because my mind wanted to be as far from this body as possible. I don't know how you can even explain it... Imagine wanting to be so far out of a room you would give anything to leave it. Now imagine that was your own body and you can start to understand body disconnection. You can leave an uncomfortable room. You can’t evacuate your own body. Excruciating, isn’t it? Looking in the mirror, I never saw a body that was perfect, only the disgusting images of what my mind had made me believe I looked like: the image of imperfection. It was shattering, painful and exhausting..

It's been three years now.

I'm quite proud to admit that my annoying need to overachieve at everything has been my biggest weakness and my greatest strength. I never wanted to do something halfway, and this was no different: I got an eating disorder as bad as they go. But I sure as hell got a recovery as good as they go. I have not relapsed or regressed. I have just grown in confidence and in strength. I haven’t done that on my own: the support I have had from just about every corner of my life has been my lifeline. Even on Tumblr where people are so confident just to share selfies and feel good about how great they look. Nothing makes me happier to see people love who they are. The people in my life have fought with me in my corner with so much strength they could collectively save the world. I am not sure I could ever find the words to describe the impact they have made.

People tell me every day how far I have come in three years. They see me eat and think it is all over. There is little truth in an assumption so bold. Here’s the thing no one told me about when I first thought an eating disorder is a good idea: it never leaves you. It just becomes less overwhelming. I still have the scars to face every day. I say remission because I never really heal. Then again I am only human and people often forget that when I have a bad day. The truth is I face my worst fear every time I sit down to eat no matter how much it seems like I love food.

I'm not perfect, no one is. And in time I've learned this fact and to love myself. I don't burst at the seams with confidence, but I definitely have more now than what I did three years ago. There are days where a relapse sits on the horizon but you just have to hold your head high and fight it. I don't write this in hopes of becoming a role model but I do hope it inspires people, not just those who face what I did, but with any curve ball life decides to throw at them. There's always a way out if you're willing to look for it.

_______________

I wrote this five years ago. This passed year has probably been the biggest test of my recovery in a long time. Staying at home with constant worries about access to the gym, my safe foods and social distancing are prime triggers for a relapse for me. It’s true that you never fully recover, but you do get better with time. Every day is a constant fight against my ED, depression and anxiety, and there are many days where it seems like climbing this never-ending mountain is impossible. But I’ve come to realise that any step we take in pushing against it (even just acknowledging our emotions and thoughts) is one in the right direction. 

In the past week I have thought quite a lot about my anorexia and impact it has had on my life, my family and my body. And the truth is, I still choose to wake up and fight the “mad bitch” everyday. Some days are definitely harder than others, sometimes it’s easy. But I win everytime because I choose to fight it. So I really hope that anyone fighting their demons (whatever they may be) will reflect on how strong they are and the journey they have walked.   ♡ 

The Link Between Highly Sensitive People and Chronic Fatigue

HSPs tend to do more mental work than others — one of the key causes of chronic fatigue syndrome (CFS).

Chronic fatigue is one way that our body expresses what we’ve been unable to. As a highly sensitive person (HSP) — someone who feels deeply and easily gets overwhelmed — I tried to push past these traits for years. I pretended to be less affected by time pressure, (emotionally) stressful situations and loud, crowded environments than I was. I simply adapted while doing my best to not expose how rattled or upset such circumstances actually made me feel.

I didn’t realize it, but pushing myself to be something I wasn’t, forced my body to speak up. Thanks to the demands I put on it, my energy levels began plummeting drastically, and I experienced different symptoms, including weight loss and brain fog. 

At first, I thought it was because my digestive system was out of whack, but blood tests didn’t show anything wrong, and the changes I made to my diet seemed to help only a bit. But I couldn’t shake feeling totally wiped out, and that level of exhaustion often came with muscle aches, poor sleep, and even feeling as though I was coming down with the flu. 

The Road to Chronic Fatigue

I decided to visit the doctor’s office to see what was going on, and it was unsettling. The doctor was new at the clinic — a peculiar old guy with a dry sense of humor. Initially, he didn’t show much empathy, exclaiming, “Well, there certainly isn’t much meat-juice left in you!” Despite his demeanor, though, he actually said a few spot-on things. I thought my thyroid might be overactive — the symptoms seemed to match — but he brought up another possibility: chronic fatigue. 

“We won’t take any more blood tests since it’ll only repeat your feeling of not being seen,” the doctor wisely said, sharing insights gained from a lifetime of experience. “Focus on building yourself back up again.” His secretary, who afterward kindly comforted me, stated that “I looked like something the cat had dragged in.” And while I could’ve taken offense at her words, it felt more like a breath of relief. Finally, someone was taking my anguish seriously and acknowledging how sick I felt! 

The Connection Between Sensitivity and Fatigue

HSPs, like introverts, tend to reflect deeply on the world around them, and do lots of ”inner labor” that remains invisible to those around them, and therefore isn’t considered valuable. 

We’re constantly trying to adapt to a pace not aligned with our natural tendencies — and a value system that prizes achievements and accomplishments rather than internal developments — all of which takes a toll on us, as many HSPs can attest. Whether it is habitually tightening our muscles to keep ourselves together or clenching our jaws to ”power through” something, our bodies take the hit.

Too much and our bodies will start speaking up, as mine did. Chronic fatigue doesn’t have a known cause (though depression and overwork are associated with it) and rest won’t make it go away. But I believe that several high-stress incidents — like taking on limiting familial beliefs, or unwittingly absorbing and feeling trapped in loved ones’ crises and stresses — impacted me as a highly sensitive person, and by ignoring them or trying to respond in a way that wasn’t true to my sensitivity, I developed the condition. 

Repressed anger played a role as well for me. Anger can be a scary emotion and HSPs are often softhearted empaths who struggle with expressing it constructively, if at all. Unfortunately, we tend to suppress it or turn it towards ourselves in destructive ways, all to our detriment. Instead, we could use this vital life-force energy for healthy boundary setting, especially for shielding our sensitivity and for building a sense of personal power and agency. 

I have a suspicion that my illness is linked with forcefully pushing myself in an attempt to live up to the norms and ideals of society. On top of absorbing emotions and repressing anger, I come from a place inhabited by mostly practical-minded people with a traditional work ethic. Beyond a certain age, they frown upon behavior that seems lazy (because it’s not as productive as they think it should be), so being a deep-processing, quietly-observing, and emotionally-responsive person isn’t always understood or appreciated, let alone celebrated. 

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Recovering from Fatigue as a Highly Sensitive Person

My recovery hasn’t been easy. I still feel physically sick if I go into negative thought loops. And I don’t seem to be able to cope with pressure, from outside or inside. Recovery almost resembles taking care of an infant. 

I suppose I must accept it and learn how to become a responsible, loving caretaker of my physical, mental, and emotional needs by giving my body sufficient rest, plenty and proper nourishment, and living as free from stress as possible. To use mere willpower to make my body do something or push myself doesn’t work. I can’t do it anymore.

I have to be in tune with my needs and make appropriate decisions, moment by moment, based on my body’s signals. If I don’t, I reap painful consequences almost immediately. My body is a strict teacher, speaking in capital letters if I don’t treat it exactly how it needs, now. 

Channeling My Experience into a Creative Project

My exhaustion took a very serious toll on my body. But it had one upside: it made me put pen to paper. I felt an acute urge to express myself, to explore inner workings and themes. 

Last year, I wrote a novel titled What’s the Matter with Maria? It’s a tender tale about a sensitive and introverted little girl, Maria. And although my book is fictitious, it‘s inspired by my personal experience pushing myself to adapt to the kinds of outer demands which often produce some degree of internal agony.  

Thinking about the inspiration for the book takes me back to that taxing time when I first fell ill. The memory is palpable — I can’t help recalling how awful I felt both physically and emotionally. I know my little protagonist Maria’s anxious alertness well, her feeling of not being enough, falling short, and that her highly sensitive traits are wrong or inferior.

My wish for all highly sensitive people — both children and adults — is that they understand and respect the language of their finely-sensing bodies from an early age. A proper education in how best to preserve, protect, and nourish our precious energy is crucial to prevent steady energy drains and leaks. With its advanced capacity for sensing subtleties and fine distinction, let your highly sensitive body be your primary guide in life — allow it to be your personal compass.

Please don’t ignore or downplay the symptoms and sensations your body so generously provides. Even if nobody else seems to understand or see good reason for them, the warnings will turn up the volume to catch your attention. Instead, honor your innate sensitivity by being responsible, which means being responsive and making every adjustment to maintaining your health that you possibly can. After all, you are the only one who knows exactly how you feel. 

You might like:

For HSPs, Compassion Fatigue is Too Real

How to Stop Feeling Exhausted All the Time as a Highly Sensitive Person

13 Problems Only Highly Sensitive People Will Understand

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Let Boys Love Girl Things

For a deeply depressed, angry, and vitriolic bisexual 20-something who stumbled out of a toxic 2-year intensive college program confused as fuck about his gender and hurting everyone around him, it is with no exaggeration that I say My Little Pony: Friendship Is Magic’s low-key stakes, warmth, humour, kindness, and utter lack of cynical irony was my first step on the road not only to recovery but coming even sort of close to having an accord with my identity. So I quite frankly I am exhausted that I have spent nine years being judged on the behaviour of a fandom group from 4chan. Nine years ago there was a gross perpetuation of toxic masculinity where men were ridiculed en-masse for liking a “girl’s show,” a campaign of derision that only intensified as the worst elements of 4chan gave everyone the evidence they seemed to want to justify their snap-judgement that boys liking girls shows was fundamentally weird, gross, and worthy of censure. We like to clap ourselves on the back for how woke we are now. There’s no discourse that says it is “skeevy” that men enjoy She-Ra, and petulant MRAs on Reddit getting upset about the show’s new ‘feminist’ agenda is considered to be representative of nothing other than petulant MRAs on Reddit, not the She-Ra fandom as a whole. Steven Universe is triumphed everywhere as a victory for better masculinity - without anyone ever noting that Steven would love every single moment of My Little Pony: FiM. He’d cry at the wedding, and he’d weep at the destruction of the library, and he’d think the Storm King was an effective villain while Connie rolled her eyes and tried and failed to point-out the weak characterization. Steven would cheer and cry every time a villain was redeemed through the power of love and friendship. Because he’s Steven, and he loves schmaltz, and it’s okay for a boy to like schmaltz. If we truly believe that, as we say we do, it’s time let the habit of shaming boys who liked a cartoon show go. It’s been a decade. Yes: MLP: FiM had a disgusting contingent of its fandom. You know what other franchise has that problem? A little film series you might have heard of called Star Wars. A contingent of Star Wars fandom was so racist it drove actors of colour off of twitter because it piled hate upon them. It was so misogynistic that somebody out there recut the entirety of The Last Jedi so that men save the day and all the women get reduced to bit parts. And yet if I see a Star Wars avatar my first assumption generally isn’t “oh you like Star Wars, so you must therefore be a misogynistic racist.” Because statistically speaking, you aren’t - just like, statistically speaking, the men who liked My Little Pony weren’t 4chan users. Not that most people bothered to find that out, because - shockingly - the worst elements had loud voices and got all the press, and the standard we applied to them was so entrenched in patriarchy that none of us wanted to accept that men could like the girls show without it being some gross violation of the proper order. I’m tired of that. The show’s been on nine years - long enough that kids who grew up watching it are old enough to start entering “The Discourse Space,” and what kind of example do we want to set for them that a show that might have meant so much to them growing up is given a defacto label of deviancy? ”Adult males like this show about the little kiddie ponies - that’s so creepy.” There’s a point I want to make here that I think really needs to be said so I am going to make it large

My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic is a show for children; it is not a show about children.

What do I mean by this? Adventure Time is the story of Finn, a 12-year-old. Steven Universe is a show about Steven Universe, a 12-year-old. Ok K.O. is a show about K.O. a 6-11 year-old. Avatar: The Last Airbender is about a group of kids aged 11-14. She-Ra is a show about Adora who is… 16-ish? 17? And so on.

MLP:FiM is a show about 20-somethings. It’s a show about a grad student, a small business owner, a baker, a farmer, an environmental technician, a… trust fund baby?*... and, later, a former dictator. Yes, there are some kid characters, but the primary cast are all young adults who’ve reached adulthood and found themselves having to learn over and over again all sorts of shit they really ought to have known by now but don’t. It is, in short, a story about Millennials: an entire generation who reached adulthood not knowing what that meant or how to cope. Every time you laugh at the characters and go “how do they not know this [obvious thing that is obvious to adults]” you do so while watching a children’s cartoon rather than paying your taxes because you’re still not sure how to do that properly and are just low-key freaking out about it and hoping the problem goes away on its own. I speak from experience. The list in endless: we might ridicule the ponies ignorance at social graces, but i’ve been on this hellsite long enough that I’m pretty sure most of you are social-anxious neurotics who cock-up just as often and just as spectacularly as any pony on the show.

I’ve grown up in-sync with these characters. I’ve seen them go from floundering at 20 to sorta getting their act together and coming to grips with adult life as they reach 30. I’ve seen them become successful, get new jobs, start new careers. There have been episodes about how to deal with parents who embarrass you, how to get your parents to understand that you’re an adult now and want to be treated that way. There str stories about how to handle deadbeat older brothers who won’t stop mooching off your emotional labour, and how to mourn parents who’ve died. There are also stories about the byzantine nature of school regulation. (If next season is all about Twilight Sparkle reforming the Equestrian tax code it will be entirely in keeping with the adult-life-trend the show has been on for a while.)

My point with all this is that the “liking the kid’s show” narrative is disingenuous in the way it frames fans as creepy. To get tu quoque about it all I could raise my hand and point at all you adults gushing about all these kid protagonists in your favourite cartoon shows and go “Isn’t that CREEPY and GROSS you DEVIANTS” and on and on and on.

But I won’t.

Because it was never really about that, was it? It’s never been about that.

It was, at first, about what it was and wasn’t okay for boys - for men - to like. As a kid who’d been mercilessly bullied for being even the tiniest bit effeminate, openly embracing the fact that I liked this show about the colourful cartoon ponies felt like painting a target on my back. As for the boys younger than me - the boys still in high school in 2010 and 2011 who openly embraced this show? Braver than any US marine. When this all started it was about policing what was ‘appropriate’ for boys - nobody gave the adult Transformers fandom the same kind of shit, I assure you. It was about patriarchy - and how unwilling we all were to let go of it, no matter how progressive we told ourselves we were. Just like any moral panic, it developed a far more disturbing tone of disapprobation because if a handful of fans on 4chan were creepy than surely all the fandom was creepy. I’ve had plenty of fun mail in my inbox as people with cartoon avatars told me my opinion was invalid because I had an avatar from a different cartoon show. If I had an MP avatar that made me a “brony,” which made me a creepy MRA edgelord. Never mind that I don’t even use the term, and haven’t since… well, since the grossest elements of 4chan got it tattooed on their phalluses and trumpeted it to the heavens as the calling card of their misogyny.

There was a moment, I think, back in the halcyon days of 2010 and 2011 where we could have taken this another way. Where, socially, the rise of boys watching ‘the girl’s show’ was treated as a breakthrough, as a paradigm shift, as something to be celebrated and nurtured instead of something to revile like an anti-homosexual PSA from the 1950s. “Can’t let the adult men near that children’s show, who knows what might happen. They might repeat the trends that all fandoms have done for decades upon decades - the horror!”

We could have been better - but we weren’t. We mocked, and clutched our pearls, and looked appalled, and in doing so we fed the trolls all the ammunition they’d ever need to turn themselves into The Poor Oppressed Babies who just wanted to be left alone to watch their ponies and belittle women in peace. So the gender-questioning bi boy trying to feel good about himself got rounded-up with the usual 4chan suspects because we both enjoyed the same television program.

Patriarchy is not an external force with its boot upon our necks: it is a collaborative social effort, reinforced both consciously and sub-consciously every day. The internet of the early 2010s was a very different place, and the decisions we made then still live with us today. If we want to stop the perpetuation of toxic masculinity, we have to ourselves cease to perpetuate it. There’s an entire generation of queer boys and non-binary boys and non-bro cis-boys - the kind who cry and care and give a shit about kindness - who have grown up on Steven Universe and Adventure Time and yes, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic. These are boys who deserve to have a better place prepared for them than I had, one that isn’t still littered by the baggage of all the dumb stupid crap from 2010 and 2011.

It’s time to let the ghost of Toxic 4chan Fandoms Past go already, and let this show about cartoon ponies be free to entertain and delight without incurring a moral inquisition. Life is so bad right now, the news is so dire. Curl up with My Little pony: Friendship is Magic and let all its goodness, and kindness, and laughter, and caring carry you away and remind you that we can still tell stories about worlds in which those virtues are treasured. Let the show stand on its actual merits, and not the cultural lodestones of long-gone reprobates. And stop granting the phantoms of 4chan the power to say anything meaningful in 2019.

_________________ *Serious question: what does Fluttershy do for a living? Like, as her job? For most of the series? She’s the only one who doesn’t have a meaningful career, and after meeting her enabling parents you just know she’s been living off pre-existing savings for years (she’s thrifty like that).

[Note: this post was originally posted in this thread. It has since been re-edited and slightly modified.]

October 28, 2019

I haven’t written a blog in over 3 years. Thanks to the encouragement of my best friend, I decided that it was time to find healthier ways to cope with my thoughts and emotions as I head down this journey of recovery. I really hate talking about my feelings and it’s scary as fuck lol, but it hurts so much to keep it bottled up inside. Thank you for joining me.

I experienced the darkest period of my life the past 3 months, so much so that I had to quit my job and move back to Texas for a bit. At some point I was on a code 5150 in California and I couldn’t emotionally stay there anymore. I was watching my parents turn ill because they were worried about me, and I saw all the relationships that meant so much to me slowly and sadly deteriorate. I decided to go home to recover. 

And the first few weeks back at home were actually quite encouraging. I decided to take care of myself more and did something that would better my life in some way - I forced myself to wake up early so I could work on maintaining my Vitamin D levels. I went to the dentist and I went to the eye doctor to get new prescriptions for my glasses. I had the first pap smear ever in my life. I practiced meditation and started to eat a lot more often. There was never a day where I shut myself inside - I was always out with friends or family to avoid being alone with my thoughts. I seriously thought, “This is it, there’s no regression happening soon. I’m really feeling a lot better.”

But. 

Starting last week something(s) caused me to feel like I was falling back into my darker self. One night I came home after a night out with my friends to find my mom lying on the floor. I don’t know how long she was lying there but I freaked out and started crying. I thought she had died from a heart attack and I couldn’t stop panicking. She eventually woke up and told me the truth as I was holding her on the floor after shaking her awake - that she was really sick and that it was bad. And then my mind went dark. Did I cause this? Did I worry my mom so much that she got this ill? Did I kill my own mom?

And then things got progressively worse. I reached out to my best friend whose relationship I damaged so badly to try to fix it but it never really progressed further than the equivalent of “hey how are you.” Then that made me freak out because it’s the one relationship in my life that I value very highly and thought that nothing could ever tear it down. My brother eventually moved out of the house, and even though the reason was legitimate and logical (to be closer to work), I still felt like I lost a part of my home life. My FP started talking to me less and less as the days went on and as a result, I became progressively more sad because it felt like he was going to abandon me soon, too. What used to be us talking every day eventually turned into (luckily) maybe every 3 days and the conversations had no more substance. It felt like he didn’t enjoy talking to me anymore because the tone grew cold unlike how kind it used to be before, and my mind registered that as an automatic rejection. 

So I started to slip again as I watched everyone around me who I loved the most leave one by one. And the biggest fear of someone who struggles with BPD is being abandoned and rejected because our entire existence revolves around our relationships. I panicked. And I didn’t know how to cope other than to rely on my meds - and when I got to one of those days where I was in an absolute state of despair - I would take more and more to not feel anything anymore. I fell into a state of addiction, but my meds were actually hurting the people around me even more. I started to hallucinate when I took too much, and started acting and saying strange things to those I loved without even really remember doing it. I would hallucinate that my brother moved back home and I would call him repeatedly. I did the same thing to my FP. And my best friend. Literally those who I knew were slipping away quickly. I would look back on the excessive calls and texts I sent to everyone once I woke up and I would cry in horror. 

Nothing I said or did made sense, even to me. Some things I said were absolutely nonsense, some were absolutely mean, and some I don’t even know how to describe in words. I am an awful human being, I would think to myself. I felt the frustration, concern, rage, confusion...the spectrum of all negative emotions that can be felt by those I loved and hurt. All the negative emotions caused me to panic, which caused a mini seizure that threw me into even more panic. And in that moment I wished someone would have told me “I’m here for you, let’s work through this together.” Because positive encouragement is what pushes me through - being verbally lashed out at and called “crazy” is what shuts me down. I already know that I’m batshit. I tell myself that every single waking moment. What I needed was a helping hand, a gentle push, an affirmation of acceptance that I’m trying my best. 

My parents watched this all happen and grew even more concerned and started monitoring me even more closely (which made me feel even more trapped - which caused me to slip even more). One night I was out with my best friend and he told me that I needed to stop my meds immediately because he was concerned that one day I might actually OD. 

In my head I thought, “You know, that might not be so bad. I’ve been trying to die for a long time anyway.” But he was right. Once I saw what the reality was, it became scary to think that what I was using to make myself feel better was making those around me feel worse. Which in turn would make me feel even more sad to the point where I would have to rely on my meds even more heavily. Which in turn will cause everyone else to feel hostile and frustrated with me. It was a vicious cycle of absolute chaos. And so I tossed my meds, dyed my hair, and told myself I’m starting over. Let’s prove to everyone who I love the most that I’m not weak and that I have the resilience to become the best version of myself. 

Tomorrow I’m going to the doctors to find a more natural way to cope. I am pausing any sort of meds for now and looking at other ways to calm myself down that doesn’t involve self destruction. Blogging has already helped a lot since I finally feel like I don’t have to keep everything tied in a broken bow inside. I’m working out a lot more, and dyed my hair to a color I’ve always wanted to do but was too scared to :) I hope one day I will be able to heal the relationships I have damaged so much, but for now I need to find my own personal joy and a reason to look forward to waking up tomorrow. 

But yeah lol thanks for coming to my TedTalk I’ll see y’all tomorrow. 

This song has great meaning to me through symbolism. When I was younger, I would have frequent nightmares of being a male soldier in a war, scrambling out of the way of bombs, having a near death experience. It reoccurred a few ways, but always left me very shaken when I woke up. Being impressionable and still finding my way in faith, I thought this was some way God was telling me I should be in the military. What it really was, is probably how I've always felt akin to soldiers, having no other representation to relate to about my trauma. I've always felt like my life was a war. I believe I also have a repressed military and or solider alter, somewhere, because of this. That's what initially had me listening to it, on repeat. Though this song is originally about humanity and war, for now, I will go in depth about this song and how I relate to the lyrics to this beautiful song as a system. "We laid our names to rest Along the dotted line We left our date of birth And our history behind" This first stanza of lyrics speaks of losing all sense of identity in general as they become one in a sea of many, possibly being condemned to death. To me, this is losing all sense of identity as the first split happened, otherwise to be condemned to death. "We were full of life We could barely hold it in We were amateurs at war Strangers to suffering" These lyrics put emphasis on how young and inexperienced the soldiers were, how ignorant they were in what they were doing, splitting. For me, it put emphasis on how young and inexperienced we were when the split happened, how we had no idea of the grand scale of suffering to come in the next two decades. "We made our families proud But scared at the same time We promised we’d be safe Another lie from the front lines" This stanza has dual meaning for me, how I made my literal family proud at a cost, to split to be someone I wasn't to please them. All the while I'm lying through all my self destruction that I'll be fine, I'll be okay, I'll be safe. But moreso means how I made my fellow systems, and the ones who actually love me, my families, proud, but scared, for taking the journey into recovery and taking those first steps, signing up to what I knew would be hell between myself and myself. I had let a lot of those I loved in my life when I entered recovery that this may not be easy, that this could be life changing and difficult for me. That I could relapse, that I could not be myself entirely. "Our backs against the wall We’re surrounded and afraid Our lives now in the hands Of the soldiers taking aim" This describes the fight between my alters and I have had all through my life and now with my recovery, how they only thought they were doing what was right, just like many soldiers. One example, Alice for instance, when she abused pills thinking it would help us stay in control more than it would hurt us. That the risk would be the reward. "Firefighters," as I learned in therapy, as they are called, often times try to fight the feelings of system littles and their flooding, usually in impulsive and seemingly self destructive ways, even though they usually do have the systems best interest at heart. "Our questions ricochet Like broken satellites How our bodies, born to heal Become so prone to die?" I love love love how this is applicable to the previous paragraph and DID coping as much as it is actual war, how the body thinks this is what is best for it, for the greater cause. Its a question Ive pondered many times myself about myself, war, mental illness, suicide, and just humanity in general. Like with humanity's denial of climate change, as one example. To me, this paragraph is symbolic how a coping mechanism like DID turns negative once you have survived the trauma impacting you, and the dissociation can become more a hindrance than a help. How the body splits to survive, but at the same time, some of us have alters that can want to end the bodys life for many reasons. "Though time is ruthless It showed us kindness in the end By slowing down enough A second chance to make amends As life replayed, we heard a voice proclaim "Lay your weapons down! They’re calling off the war On account of losing track Of what we’re fighting for" This stanza I always see as though time was ruthless to me for a long time, I am finally bein delivered kindness, as myself in the epiphany moment I had realizing again both with Lance as I realized he's here to help me, not hurt me, and then again with Morgue and the moment my attitude started to change. I had repressed learning this with Lance the first time, brushing it off as denial, that he must have been a product of a trans thing, not that he was a male alter trying to help me uncover repressed masculinity. It was me having a crucial truce with myself that would change my life forever. I can see all my alters putting down their weapons at one another with open eyes, realizing we are all here for the same reason, we lost track what we were here for in the first place. This is me calling off the war as I entered recovery and stopped hating all my alters so much despite being so scared, the epiphany moment of choosing to start to love them instead. "So we found our way back home Let our cuts and bruises heal While a brand new war began One that no one else could feel" This was me when I finally put ten years of denial behind me upon first questioning if I had DID, and made the call to enter therapy; the battle of surviving constant fresh trauma was over, but a new one began in the therapy chair, in my own mind. This is my alters all slowly showing themselves to me and coming to my conscious state, coming "home." "Our nights have grown so long Now we beg for sound advice," Me finally admitting how tough this has been, and seeming help for it. 'Let the brokenness be felt 'Til you reach the other side There is goodness in the heart Of every broken man Who comes right up to the edge Of losing everything he has'" A therapeutic practice in DID recovery is usually to have all your alters come forward, get to know them. That while it seems bad finding more of them, you have to fully recognize how dissociated you are before you can have them all integrate, if that is what you choose. I compare the word "broken" to how I felt not knowing I had alters, feeling so lost and one dimensional almost. Undecided to who I was. And while I still struggle with that sometimes, now that I know my alters more, I feel more whole and fuller than I ever have. That "brokenness," is in reference to the pain Ive carried of all my trauma I have compartmentalized, unable to feel it so I could survive. Ive got to feel it and work through it to get to the other side that is healing. This stanza is a reminder that there is goodness inside of all of us that were forced to do things they didn't want to in order to survive. There is goodness in every one of us that has alters that do things the core isn't happy with in order to survive. (For the record, I think comparing people who don't choose integration to broken people is very problematic, and inaccurate.) "We were young enough to sign Along the dotted line Now we’re young enough to try To build a better life" This last stanza has a very powerful ending to it, bringing everything full circle. How we were young enough to split, but its never too late to built a better life for not only myself instead of more trauma, but also within my own identity. To choose to love than hate them. Ironically, I'm at this stage of my life when I first heard the song. I heard it before I went on my trip to see my lover, and it resonated with me for a reason I couldn't figure out. Through the whole song I had very vivid imagery that kept me coming back to listen to it; there was a pulling there until I had a realization on the way home. It was the middle of the night and I sat on a pitch black bus with only moonlight to guide me. As we passed by the buildings of Virginia tech, I started to cry. This song sang my life.

Anecdote

I was thirteen years old the first time I consumed alcohol. I went into my parent’s pantry and cracked open a fifth of Malibu Rum. Little did I know at that time, this particular liquor is mainly intended to make mixed drinks, so the taste was quite revolting. Though I was repulsed by the taste, I was immediately enthralled with the feeling it gave me. I felt the thick, warm liquor coat my throat and coarse through each limb of my body. I felt exhilarated and anxious and sensational all at the same time. Looking back now, that very first sip of alcohol I ever took was a red flag that marked the beginning of a perilous addiction. When most kids drink for the first time it’s usually at party under the influence of their friends. But for me, it was at thirteen years old, alone, hidden in the pantry. 

And then came high school. During freshman year I had a decent group of friends, and by friends I mean drinking buddies. Each week we would look forward to whose house we were going to get hammered at that weekend, and to be honest that was all fun for a while. Then the blackouts started. I would drink myself into oblivion; I was completely out of control. Losing friends for making out with their boyfriend in a drunken stupor. Being banned from friend’s houses by their parents because I was so obviously wasted. Worrying my parents sick on countless occasions because they had no idea where I was--and quite frankly neither did I most of the time. I had no moral filter whatsoever. I couldn’t deal with the embarrassment of my abhorrent actions, and I certainly refused to face the consequences of them. I virtually became a social pariah to that particular group of friends.

And then came Danny Koteles. After I had become an outcast to a majority of the friends in my grade, I began hanging out with my lifelong neighbor Danny. We had known each other our entire lives but never really became acquainted until late sophomore year. And we instantly hit it off; we became bestfriends. Not only had I found a new group of friends, but an awesome new crowd to get wasted with all the time. After a few months of hanging out, Danny and I started dating. Everything was awesome at first, I had my best friend, my boyfriend, and my drinking buddy all as one person. But then the fighting started. All we did was fight, drunk or sober. It was an extremely destructive relationship, but it seemed that the more toxic it was, the harder it became to try and let go. I was far too attached and insecure to ever have the balls to end the relationship, but eventually one day in the summer of 2015, he finally called it quits. I was thrown into the deepest abyss of agony and distress that I was essentially dysfunctional. So what to do in attempt to overcome my first heartbreak? Go out to a party and get wasted, of course. So that night I went to a friend’s house, drank an entire fifth of Three Olives vodka, and completely blacked out. Only when my airbags were exploding in my face did I become slightly coherent. That began round one of probation. It also began my senior year of high school.

Among dealing with all of my legal repercussions, the universe decided to throw yet another grenade into my life--Danny already had a new girlfriend. I was still friends with some of his friends, and they told me that after spending Halloween weekend at Michigan State, he came back with a new girl on his hip. Fucking great. That completely broke me. Even just being aware of that information is heart-wrenching, but living four doors down from him and seeing her car parked in front of his house destroyed me. So one night, in the midst of one of my blackouts after getting wasted alone in my room (on a school night), I snuck out of my house, slashed the tires in his car, keyed it, and kicked a dent in hers. Even better, I didn’t recall doing any of this until detectives showed up at my school and pulled me into the principles office to interrogate me about it. Luckily, no charges were pressed but I still had to pay for the damages, and deal with the shame and embarrassment of it all. I became that crazy girlfriend that boys always bitch about. I hated myself. I hated who I had become. And since I kept blaming Danny and everyone else around me for it, things only got worse.

Being the ungrateful delinquent I am, I didn’t take the terms of my probation seriously whatsoever. I thought I could beat the system, and so I drank throughout the entire process. And got caught every time of course, but my ego kept telling me it was okay, not only because I’m a minor but also because I was such an excellent manipulator and so articulate and presentable; they can’t possibly throw me in jail. Eventually after countless probation violations, they judge discharged me as a violator and forced me to spend the rest of the day sitting in a holding cell beneath the courthouse. No big deal. 

The person I was then was so co-dependent and sickeningly insecure that I was sure the only way to finally get over Danny was to find a new boyfriend to distract from the heartache. So in the winter of 2016, I did. Parker Dyze. Parker was good to me, he really was, but rebound relationships never work. I don’t think I ever really had feelings for him, but rather liked the idea of making it known to Danny and the rest of the world that I have another boyfriend and that “I’m fine.” I made it pretty evident that I didn’t like Parker, and treated him pretty poorly. And then in a bizarre turn of events, he ended up becoming obsessively attached to me. My lack of attraction to him made this an extremely uncomfortable situation, but I had lost all of my friends, and was desperately afraid of being alone, so I couldn’t let Parker go. 

But then in the summer of 2016, Martin came into my life. Martin and I had worked together at a restaurant called Kruse and Muer for a little over two years, but never really talked much. When I first started working there in 2014 I always thought he was absolutely adorable, and my bestfriend Hope who worked there suggested that we go out. I honestly laughed. I had absolutely no chance with this gorgeous kid. But then one quiet afternoon, I was sitting at work when he walked in. Martin had just finished his freshman year at Grand Valley State University, and I have no idea what it was, but when I saw him something compelled me to go greet him with a huge hug. That sort of established our friendship, when we started talking and texting and hanging out. I had completely fallen for the kid. But meanwhile, I was still technically seeing Parker. When I realized how real my feelings for Martin were, I attempted to break things off with Parker. That did not go well. He did, what I liked to call, “pulling a me.” He began drinking violently and uncontrollably, and honestly put me in a few situations that made me feel extremely violated. And then it hit me: this is how I made Danny and his girlfriend feel, and now Parker is the one in my shoes. I was guilt-ridden, I was completely head-over-heels for Martin, and nothing else really mattered. We started dating, and then both left for college. I was at Michigan State and he was at Grand Valley. The distance was hard and I could scarcely cope. I was drinking nearly every day at Michigan State and it only made my addiction worse. 

Summer 2016 rolls around, and everything is great. Martin and I are both home from school for the summer, but there was one pretty huge problem: my addiction followed me home too. Martin is obviously no alcoholic or addict, so he never really understood my constant drive to want to get drunk. I wanted it all the time. When I woke up in the morning my first thought was how I could get through the day most efficiently so I could drink as soon as possible. This escalated into not caring what I had to get done that day, I could drink while doing it. I never lost a job throughout my alcoholism, but I definitely did a lot of quitting. Then in late July of 2016 came another run-in with the law. Martin and I got arrested in downtown Royal Oak for possession of marijuana. My sentencing date was on August 1, and I showed up still drunk from the night before. Obviously the judge caught wind of this, and furiously assigned me to a SoberLink (portable breathalyzer). I had a review hearing on the 17th, and in that short two weeks I drank heavier than I ever have before. This was obviously a severe violation of my probation, so the judge did something I never thought would happen--sent my white privileged ass to jail followed by a rehab center for thirty days. Sitting here today, typing this blog, I can honestly say I would sit in jail for a week all over again if it meant being able to go through treatment, because I would have NEVER done it on my own. The thought of having a drinking problem never even crossed my mind, because I wouldn’t allow it to. After I was discharged from rehab, I went back to see the judge and he already saw significant improvement in my health, spirit, and demeanor. I was assigned to wear an alcohol tether for two months. At the next review hearing, both my probation officer Judge Meinecke was overjoyed with the progress I’ve made and how seriously I’m taking my recovery program. And I am. My sobriety comes before anything else in my life. 

I’d be lying if I said I don’t have temptations, and yes I’m extremely nervous for when I don’t have legal restrictions completely preventing me from using alcohol, but I’ve mastered the concept of playing the tape through. Right now, the result of any consumption of alcohol is jail time, and that is NOT an option for me. My addict mind likes to entertain the thoughts of how I could potentially get away with drinking, but even without legal obligations, all I have to do is think about all of the blessings sobriety has me. Since I got sober, I look healthier, I feel better, I’m not an emotional wreck, I’m reasonable, I don’t self-harm, my skin is clear, my hair is growing, I’m able to sleep at night, I got a new job, I’m going to school, I’m productive, I have an amazing relationship with my family, Martin and I hardly fight, I can laugh and love and learn, and most importantly, I’m able to appreciate the endless beauty in this life. These are all things I could never do living under the influence of the bottle.