sapphire02's Diaryland Diary

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

NANO

Introductions, god how I hate them. What do I tell them, do I want to remain a mystery or let it all hang at once. I don't even know who I am anymore. I could say that I am fragmented, like so many colors glancing off shards of glass. My soul is over here, while my spirit falls down ...there.
I guess I could begin with the obligatory excuses that every child gives when caught doing something wrong,

I was abused as a child. Well I was, but who fucking cares. There are so many of us now, it hardly phases anyone. I'm not saying that we don't still bear scars and it doesn't affect our lives in any way, cause it does. Only I now choose to wear my scars as medals of honor. I accept my life and all of it's chaos, simply as MY LIFE.

Perhaps I should just start it as this:

It was a dark and lonely night. I sat on the cold cement sidewalk, staring up at the sky. Clouds illuminated by a full, fall moon, drifted ever so slowly towards a distant horizon. I didn't know where they were going, but I fleeting thought that I�d like to see someday. Just to follow them traveling through night until I reached forever.

My hands were freezing and as I held them close to my body, it was then that I noticed my ring. It's gold glinted as I turned it around. The diamonds were always cutting into the right side of my pinkie. I had developed a callous from it's constant irritation. This ring had become my gauge of sanity. If it turned easily, I was okay, if it was too tight it meant another day of flagellation.

I slid my hands down and touched my bare ankles. I must admit, I sat out here hoping I'd catch pneumonia. I had taken off my socks and played ring around the rosy with a pole, standing in a pool of stagnant rain water. Maybe I'd get parasites too. They could attach themselves to my intestines and I could die skinny. Wasting away until all that was left was paper-thin skin draped over grey bone. I had always been attracted to Death.

"Well, maybe you should have married him them!"

"Shut up" I whispered through clenched teeth. My mouth coming down suddenly upon my finger, I bit hard. As weird as it sounds, it kept the voices at bay. The voices came quite often of late, mocking me as they whispered such hateful things. Usually a quick sharp blow was enough to remind me I was okay, but when things got too bad, I'd have to resort to drastic measures.

I held up my arm up, suddenly reminded that I hadn�t checked it size in the last 10 minutes. I gave it a shake and let out a dismayed breath. It still wiggles. I slapped the skin under my arm and looked away. I�d have to increase my dips and tricep curls.

�God, it�s really cold out here.� I hadn�t even noticed that I had started shivering. My teeth chattered so violently in my head, I swear it sounded like skeletons grinning. I stood up to go back inside, giving the puddle one last kick. Hitching up pants I shut the door behind me.

I became anorexic/bulimic at the old age of 27. Honestly, that was the one thing that I was most ashamed of. Not the fact that I suffered from an eating disorder, but that I was so damn old. Most girls had figured out that having an eating disorder was not all that it was cracked up to be and in therapy by the time they were in their mid-twenties. In my defense, I never really needed one. I was always thin as a child and could eat whenever and whatever I wanted. Still, now that I look back, the signs were there. When I was bored I ate, when I was sad I starved�.when the problem went away, I celebrated with food.

I guess it reared it�s ugly head after I had gotten out of a very serious and abusive relationship. During those years, I had been stuffing my face, almost like I was swallowing my problems down, hiding them from prying eyes. After he left, I opened my mouth and just screamed, and boy did I scream. Suddenly purging became my silent scream. When I felt rage I would grab anything that looked remotely good and stuff it down my throat. I�d quietly excuse myself and force my fingers down as far as they could possibly go. Sometimes in my haste and anger, I�d rip the back of my throat, but it didn�t matter. So long as I screamed everything back up again, I could live one more day. People would come up to me, shaking their head in awe on my strength and character,

�How did you ever survive such a life?� If they only knew.

We become such wonderful story-tellers, living two separate lives. The one on the outside, we keep clean and fun. Plaster a smile on your face and bounce your ass down the hall. You are greatly loved by all. You are stylish and carefree. Behind closed door, where shadows wait for you to acknowledge them, you are bloated and teary-eyed. Your voice no longer laughing, it is harsh and hoarse. Your carefully pressed clothes now splashed with this afternoon�s rage. Your mind shuts down, refusing to see what damage your doing. That�s when the voices step in.

�You disgusting pig, look at you. You are so gross!� I nodded miserably as I stared at myself in the mirror. I really was. Quickly I washed my face and turned away.


I woke up this morning from a re-occurring nightmare, clutching my covers about my neck tightly. I had been having this dream for weeks now, and it never failed to set me at unease. I had dreamt that I was standing above this deep and dark chasm. I kept telling myself that if I thought light enough, I would be able to float over to safety. That�s when I heard this beautiful and yet terrifying singing. It was a wordless tune with an heart-aching melody. I would walk along the edge of the abyss, searching for her, or it�whatever the case may be.
I was so sure that the source of the song was coming from there that I held my breath. I could tell that something was rising up from the shadow, down there so far below me and my heart would skip a beat as I waited to see what it was.
The dream would get lighter, as a mist would start closing in, and I caught a glimpse of something light. It was almost as if it were illuminated from the inside out but when it would get close enough for me to see, I would jerk awake.

It felt like it was about 50 degrees in my house. I didn�t know if I was shivering because I had been startled or because I was so thin, that covers no longer kept my precious body heat in.. I rubbed my legs together rapidly, working up the courage to leap out of bed, run across the wooden floor and jump into the shower.

�One, two�three� I threw back the covers and flew, accidentally slamming my hip against the wall.

That was going to leave a mark.

Once in the shower I stood with eyes close, water streaming over my head. This was the one moment of the day that I actually felt at peace. I could spend 20 minutes, or at least until the water got cold, before I ever thought to even reach for the soap.
Showers had long been a way of escape for me. As a teen I�d get in, and shut out the sound of complaining parents. I�d scrub and scrub, as if I were trying to erase all traces of me. Inside and out, I�d lather up and rinse�lather up and rinse. My skin, flushed from almost scalding water, was raw and tingly. Soon as my obsession with cleanliness became more and more prevalent, my skin�s natural oils were replaced with dry patches.

I once met Death. He came to me once when I was a child. At the hands of an uncle I became broken. Though others saw pieces of me lying about, they swept it under the rug, saying only I�d forget. That�s Death first took notice. With the shattering of innocence, he came and spirited away the little girl and left in her place a shell. I met him again one night while lying in a cold sterile hospital room. Weeping uncontrollably, I sat with my face turned to wall. The nurses were talking in hushed voices, walking quickly from room to room. I had taken a bottle full of pills, and ended up in the E.R. with a sudden change of heart. My blood pressure was now stable, so I guess they figured they no longer needed to check on the �poor stupid girl�
I had no way to get home, no one answered the phone at my house. I sat and contemplated calling my parents. God, that was the last thing I wanted to do. Yet I had no one else.

Death came into my room and held out his hand. He was beautiful. Eyes full of compassion he kissed my cheeks and showed me her. She was crying, reaching out like a lost child, wanting her mother. I couldn�t get to her though. You see, I had two children at home I still had to tend to. No, she was going to have to wait just a little longer.
Her sobbing grew louder, with deep painful groans, and I wept at having to say goodbye. I promised that one day�one day I would return.

I suppose from that moment on, I never again feared Death. You see, it was He who always listened to the tears I wept silently. I whispered my story and it was He who held my hand. I went out of my way to seek him, begging him to take me. He was elusive, always a finger-tip away. If only�if I could only cross over I could be reunited with her once again. Every winter he calls to me, in the quiet dark of the night, I hear His sweet song. In his hand he holds a star, and there she sits. Upon Orion�s belt she holds out her tiny hands, wishing for me to grab her.
Even 8 years later, after turning Him away, he let�s me know that he listens, and he is always there. It was in those moments, I roll over in bed, and cling tightly to my husband�s sleeping form. Sometimes however, the melody becomes to hard to resist.

I suppose my lack of fear is what spurred my forward in my ED. I began to teeter from starving to purging. My body was just too hungry.

Attaching ourselves to older women, looking for some maternal pacifier that will kiss away our boo-boos, our mouth sealed shut against deluge that longs to pour from within.
I fell in love with many, not in a sexual manner, but more as a child that adored a mother. I longed to cry out upon their soft skin, smelling their perfume as years of tears were released like waters from a dam.
No such luck.

For there was always something that prevented me from telling all. Instead, the needy became the mother. Often times we'd sit her and I, she'd cry and tell me of this man or that asshole that had wronged her. I'd rant and rave along side, forgetting for a moment that I was the child, and she was the experienced one.
I turned instead to men. It didn't matter what they looked like, so long as they were interested only in me as a sister. I wanted, no needed to feel protected. I ventured out after dark into bars and clubs alone. My demeaner was of one much stronger than I felt. In the end, some man would see through it all, and for the night shelter me from the storm of myself.

Don't touch me, don't ever touch me....I am sexless
They too, never really knew what I fought against.

"You are like a flower who's petals have been damaged. I can see a permanent sadness in your eyes." One man said to me as we danced. I smiled my mysterious smile and averted my eyes. I didn't want them to read to far or too deeply in the story that lie within.

I was empty, and searching; disappointment met me around every bend. Slowly I stopped talking. One less sentence here, no more laughter there. I began to blend in with the walls that surrounded me.
No one could possibly understand, for the few I had confided in before, had turned me away. I could not possibly share any more. Perhaps if someone with some insight had taken a closer look, they would have seen on the outside, what my inside could not say.
I was fading into nothing.

No more emotions...I prayed...No more I can't handle these

One would see me staring at the computer screen, thinking I was chatting or writing. I was simply staring at nothing. I often pretended that I was reading something interesting, or that I was talking to someone, but really, I was willing all emotion to go away. My tears stopped, and I became stone.

For awhile my demons lay dormant. As I focused my attention on my disappearing act, the voices that accused me of being unworthy grew quiet. I didn't hear the real ones that shouted from across the room, that I would never be loved, that I could never be pretty. I was locked away in a room of my own construction. I was safe.

I am sitting here forcing my fingers to type. I notice that the scar I bore on my right hand is slowly fading. The calloused skin that bore testimony of secret pain, is finally disappearing.

Somethings happened and I am powerless to stop it. Something snapped and I am being drawn back into her. I say her because it is often easier for me to personify this force than to simply say,
I've overcome my good sense and have chosen to fall once again.

Yet isn't that what I've done?

Emotion...such strong emotion is welling up inside me, love that hurts like a thousand hammers in my chest, is threatening to pound me into dust. I cannot breathe under this pressure.
Time, I have become obsessed with time. Or shall I say, I've become obsessed with the lack of.
I count down the hours, the seconds.
"Don't leave on a bad note, I won't see you again for 5 days." Or "They are growing so fast, we need to take these moments as they come."

The madness that is setting in freezes time. Suddenly, minutes that seem to have flown by yesterday, drag on and on.
It's 3:01 a.m. and I am still awake.

It is in time such as this that I miss my husband. I miss him holding me close.. feeling like I'm about to break. I miss his hands upon my hip bones, the hollow pit in my stomach, where he presses his lips. I miss feeling empty until his body lowers itself and fills me.
I don't need anything else...I don't want to be soiled with anything else.

How can I possibly make anyone else understand?

Instead I am sitting here, feeling too full. Unable to do a thing about it. Obsessing over spaces between my fingers, contemplating the gaps between my rib cage.
Are they shrinking as my body puts on the baby fat?

I have not gained any weight since last month, but I can tell the baby's bigger.

I am crazy...no I am mad. I am craving that which I cannot be. At least, not yet. And some you will truly understand why, because you have suffered in my shoes. A spirit torn apart, never truly mends. At least, not in this life.
Perhaps this is why I no longer seek those in authority for guidance. I am sick of text book answers for spiritual problems. I am weary of well-meaning church people telling me that Jesus heals all.
Perfect love may heal, as Jesus did say, but even He still bore the scars upon His hands and feet.
If I am less than He, how can I be so stupid to believe that I will one day wake up and not see mine?
How can someone say,

"Jesus will take it away if you believe?"

That is foolish. It is misdirected hope from the unknowing. The only time we will no longer cry is in heaven.

So where does this leave me? It leaves me here...listening to the whirring of my computer, alone in the dark. Wondering when I will achieve my goal and find that wonderful place of peace
10/2007

Welcome back me. Somehow the fog lifted today and I saw myself clearly again. I took a good look into my eyes as I sat out in the grocery store parking lot and cringed at what I saw.

I look so fucking old.

The evidence of my constant betrayal of my body written within the unshed tears of my silent screams. Flagellation produced by my own hands.

I decided not to drink today. I am tired of it. I am tired of the constant draining, my head that tries to drown the protests of my heart. I�m tired of the extra calories.

I am sick and accept this. Even as I writhed in pain on the couch in my living room, as the waves of nausea crashed through me again, and again�I found comfort in the fact that I needed no food for that day. I walked very unsteadily to my bathroom, some three or four times a day to see what my fortune was�

I had lost a total of 10 pounds this week

Try and tell me that I am not disordered... Is this not madness? I don�t care, and I wished that my head would shut the hell up.

Have you ever noticed that the lower the weight goes, the more scared you get? I am terrified of gaining even a pound. Today I weighed myself first thing. I sat and voided, and then stripped naked. Standing ever so carefully, I stepped onto the scale. I could breathe again because I was still 119 pounds.
I ate breakfast, high in both fat and protein. 4 sausages. I felt completely ill after the second one, but forced myself to chew the next. Next I drank glass after glass of water. I gave myself an hour and then stepped onto the scale again, of course after peeing like a race-horse and stripping down.

120 pounds. Shit! I don�t like it, I don�t like it. I know what a pound of lard looks like. I know how heavy a pound of water is. Where the fuck is it on me? I turn and look this way and that in the mirror. My stomach was still flat, though not like the day before.
�I�ll just check back in another hour.�

I am obsessed by the dial again. I am obsessed at how flat my stomach may be. Yesterday I felt so accomplished, now there was no sense of satisfaction.

Close my eyes, and hold myself close. My fingers find familiar spaces between bones. I love the way my ribs feel and I cannot wait for me to fully see them. I rub the front of my chest and feel the ridges now more prominent. Not nearly exposed enough, however.

Yes, I believe that I told you I was ill�and I do not care.

I find myself cooking. All day long, I am preparing food. I rarely eat any of it; instead I pass it off to the family. They are so happy that I am home. I did try and make myself dinner. The kids wanted pizza. Why buy it? I made home-made. Then of course panic came in to play. What was I to eat? I�ll substitute the bread for eggplant.
Half-way through dinner, I took note of the grease floating on top, I felt too full. Sighing I knew just then what I was going to do, and I wasn�t going to fight it. I ate some more�headed to the bathroom. I stepped onto the scale 123 pounds. I voided, now that I had the pressure of my stomach I could move my bowels as well. Flush, turn and release what else was there.
I stood naked staring into the mirror once again and looked sideways, my stomach was flat again. I stepped onto the scale, 120 pounds.

Shall I talk about dessert? Low-carb ice cream. I thought I could handle it. Nope�I ate a bowl, then some more of the eggplant and did it all over again.

Hello, you�this is me. I guess I could say I am here to stay, but it would more correct in saying,

I am here, wasting away.

10:28 p.m. - 2003-11-01

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

previous - next