Unsettling.

Sitting here, listening to music feeling sleepy, and yet I know sleep is no where near. Every sound is so intense, every move I make feels so alive. I don't know what to make of this type of sensitivity. My throat is dry, and yet I have no desire to drink anything. When I stand up to try and walk, I feel so dizzy and unsteady, but at the same time I feel so graceful and so very alive. Some people call this an escape, but at this moment, I see it more as a re-awakening, a chance to feel so alive even though in reality you are the farthest thing from it. My eye-lids feel so heavy, but they always refuse to stay shut for long. Although I feel pretty good, I still feel like there is something unsettling resting deeply inside of me. Hoesntly, it may never go away. There may not be anything strong enough to rid of it, and I guess that's okay. It's not like there is anything I can do but accept it...

Monsters.

I guess this has become a regular thing, staying up till odd hours in the morning, smoke cigarette after cigarette and writing. I can't really complain, though.

My mind is racing. So many thoughts, so little capacity. I honestly feel like I can't hold any more in my brain. My memory is taunting, I have such a hard time ever letting anything go. You would think that would be a good thing, and sometimes it is. Just not at this particular moment.

I have been reading (?) this creative writing book called, "What It Is" by Lynda Barry. Today when I was looking through it, something really popped out at me. The page, full of amazing drawings, read, "What is a monster? Where do they come from? Where do they go? Why do they leave? Why do they come back? True or false: wherever there are people, you will find stories of monsters? Why? Do we need them?"

I believe a monster is something, anything, that taunts someone. When we're little, they come out at night when everyone is asleep. They hide under our beds, in our closets, in any place we find dark or scary. When we get older, they come from anywhere, many times uninvited. They continue to hide in places we find secret, dark, or frightening. When I was young, my dad told me that once an adult finds out about the monster that is scaring their child, it will go to monster jail. Monster jail was guarded by 1,000 big, strong men who were experts and keeping monsters out of our world. Now that I'm older, I know there is no monster jail, and when an adult finds out about my monsters, they become even more resilient about going away. Sometimes I believe they leave just so they can trick you into thinking they're gone to leave. And when they come back, you will be crushed, and I think they love this. I also think that they sometimes don't want to hurt anyone, but they feel like that's all they're good for. But eventually, they feel sad and guilty enough to leave you alone. I think monsters have feelings too. There will be stories of monsters where there are people because I think people often times create monsters. Some are born from fun. Others from people wanting something scarier than their own reality, something they can compare their shitty lives to and say, "There are scarier things," when, at the time, they really don't think there could be anything more frightening. However, they want to. They want to believe that things are not as bad as they seem. I believe that most monsters are born from pain. In example, 5 years ago I was in a lot of pain. I didn't know what to do. I wanted to leave school, but the only way that would happen was if I was sick. So, I went into the bathroom and made myself sick, which gave me what I wanted. At that moment, I let a monster enter in. I didn't know it, not yet. That's another thing about monsters, they aren't scary until you don't feel scared. They take advantage of the fact that for once in your life you feel okay. Monsters are taught from a very young age to never let anyone feel okay. Most people have some sort of monster in their life, and I'm pretty sure it's been this way since the beginning of time. Maybe the monsters are supposed to help us grow up, to see that eventually we have to choke back our fear, and ignore the monster. Send them to Monster Jail, let the 1,000 men handle them, and forget about it. After my dad died, my monsters stopped staying in jail. They kept getting out, and coming back to me. Maybe the gaurds were the special souls of the big, strong men, and not an actual human being- my dad did say it was a different world. And maybe when my dad died, his special soul died too, leaving 999 special souls to keep thousands of monsters locked away. And perhaps that allowed my monsters to escape, one less gaurd meant a little less security. One less parent, also meant one very sad, hurting child. Monsters are born from pain, so maybe my old monsters were still locked away, and I gave birth to new ones. However it happened doesn't matter much now. Now all that matters is the fact that they are still here. Quite honestly, I don't think even the largest monster jail could lock them away now. I've given them too much power- over me, over authority, over resposibility, over relationships; they're just too strong. Maybe one day I'll fight back, deprive them of power just the way they have slowly done to me. And yet, maybe they'll kill me before I have the chance to do that. I'm not sure. What I am sure of; however, is that they're too strong for me to fight on my own, 999 special souls just isn't enough.

I Didn't Just Land Here..

I'm sitting and thinking, how did I ever end up here? This madness that has become my life is so present that I find myself forgetting what life was like before today. However, when I really think about it, I realize nothing is much different now than it has always been.

I am wanting more than anything to be older, which is really nothing new. I never lived in my childhood. Even when I played with my toys, I was not a child. I pretended that I was the mother of my baby dolls, that I was going shopping for my family as an adult, that somehow I was much older. It's hard to look back on those times because I am painfully aware of how different I have always been. I fully understood what sex was by age 7. I understood health insurance, jobs, marriage, divorce, death, life, by the time I was 6. Maybe I was just intellectual, curious, smart, aware. Still, somewhere in the back of my warped mind, I feel that no child that young should feel that old.

I sit at my window, taking long drags from a menthol cigarette at midnight, ignoring the pain I feel inside. I watch the smoke float out of the window, and think, 'things just aren't right. ' I try to divert my mind from calories and weight, which I always find to be nearly impossible. I try to remember a time when I thought about other things, and suddenly realize that those things weren't any more pleasant. I recall a memory from age 7, sitting in a corner crying. My mom and I had an argument, and I was devastated. It wasn't over anything all-too-important, not on the surface. I used to have terrible temper tantrums. I would scream and yell and kick and bite over the silliest things, seemingly. I remember as I sat trembling and sobbing in the corner, my mom told me something I have not since forgotten, "Stop acting like you are some wounded child, like you are terrified or something. There is nothing wrong with you, no reason for you to be acting so selfish and immature." I remember exclaiming through my shaking voice, "You don't know me! You don't understand! You don't even care, so whydon'tyoujustleavemealonebecauseitdoesn'tmatteranyways!!" I wrote on a piece of paper that my mom didn't love or care about me, and that she probably wishes I was never born.

I still sometimes find myself thinking that what I wrote on that paper was true. Logically I know it isn't. She was wrong, though. I WAS wounded, in ways that I feel like she is unable to comprehend. I WAS afraid. I DID feel like there was something terribly wrong with me. And, the last thing I wanted to be was selfish and immature. I realize she said those things to make me think, to keep me from rationalizing that the way I was acting was acceptable. I also realize that she didn't know how personally I would take that remark. She didn't, and may still be unable to, see that a huge part of me wanted to believe every word she said. I constantly told her that I hated her, and didn't care what she thought of me. This was one of the biggest lies I told as a child. The problem was, I cared too much. I hung on every word she said, and tried as much as possible to make her happy. Eventually I began to feel like nothing I did would ever make her happy. At that point, I decided to give up. As I said before, the littlest things would set me off: something out of place in my room, a change in schedule, dirt on my pant leg, losing something, my sock feeling weird in my shoe; any of those things would send my little body into a fit of rage, usually ending in my mom holding me down on the floor to prevent me from hurting myself, trying to stay calm as I screamed, "I wish you would die!" Did I really want her to die? No. I had already lost my dad, and deep down in my small mind I understood that she was all I had. Maybe that was the catalyst to all of my frustration. Maybe it was the fact that I felt like my insides didn't match my outsides. Maybe it was because I thought she loved my brother more than me. Maybe it was because I wanted to hurt her with my words, just like she had done to me. It was most likely all of the above.

I couldn't make sense of the things going on inside of my head and I wanted more than anything for her to understand. Yet, somehow I knew she never would.

Things never really changed inside, although my outwardly, self-destructive behaviors often would. Eventually I learned that it was better to take out all of my painful emotions on myself rather than those around me. That's when, at 10 years old, I purged for the first time. Which is how I got to where I am today.

I take the last drag of my 2nd cigarette in a row, and put out the but on my inner arm. Forever a reminder that things haven't changed a bit...

Word Vomit.

Words. They are sot of my thing. The keep me sane, alive, they keep blood pulsing through my veins. With every beat of my heart, there is a word. Something, anything, spilling out of my soul. Sometimes it becomes too much and I can't keep it inside any longer, and they spread across the paper in a manic way even I can't comprehend, but sometimes they flow gracefully and smoothly across the page, making beauty from rubble.
If I've bottled up way too much, they spill out in a fit of rage. I punch the wall and words fly out, with every tear I cry, a thousand words leak out, never spoken, but always deeply felt. Sometimes when this happens I try to catch some of the words that are spewing profusely from me, but I can never hold on to one long enough to understand what it is, or what it means. So there I am, screaming, "You just don't understand!" While the other person, confused, softly asks, "Understand what?"
Sometimes I wake up at odd hours and panic quietly to myself because words are trapped inside, begging to be let free. I grab a pencil and pad, and hastily write all of them down. I look back at the paper full of incoherent sentences, and become unbelievably upset because their sum is equal to everything, and yet nothing at all. I want to scream until I remember what an odd hour it is. Eventually I fall asleep again and wake up the next morning feeling somewhat empty, but more so full.
The words never seem to leave, no matter how many times I write them. Words are everything. Every single goddamn thing I see has one or two meanings, and or connotations, attached to it, even something useless. I know that it should be a blessing, but at times like these I feel it to be more of a curse because I end up spewing words all over someone I hardly know, and realize I am in no shape to clean it up.
That, is my word vomit.

My house is not a home.

Family life is sucking right now. Every one is so combative and unwilling to communicate, it's awful! I am trying very hard to stay away from my mom and brother as much as possible. They wonder why I'm so screwed up, but never look in the mirror.

My brother said the most awful thing to me yesterday, so awful that I won't even repeat what he said. All of it was true, but he presented it in a very insensitive way that would make even the strongest person upset. I felt like my innards spilled out on the floor, my world shattered, and it was all I could do to fit them back in and glue everything back together. I cried for what seemed like ever, and for the first time in a while, cut. I only made one slit on my right wrist. Shallow enough to not hurt me, but deep enough to keep the pain at bay. It actually scared me a little bit.

I haven't eaten an actual meal in two days. I want to, but it's nearly impossible at this point. I just don't want to deal with all the anxiety I know eating would bring. I've been begging my mom to let me go to boarding school, but she is being very adamant. I can partly understand her hesitation, I have given her quite a few reasons to worry, but I feel like she should at least let me try. I feel like I would just be so much better without her in the picture 24/7. Even though Remuda sucked, I was the happiest I have been in my entire life. The only factor that was incredibly different was her absence. I know that sounds awful, but it's true. We have "mismatched personalities," and we've clashed for as long as I can remember. I think she knows this, but doesn't want to admit it.

I'm so ready to be independent, even though it surely doesn't seem like it with my behaviors right now. The only reason I am acting in such a way is because of my mom and brother. I know my restrictive and self-destructive behaviors don't help y case, but as of now it's the only thing keeping me from flying of the handle.

Right now I'm at my friend Krista's house, which is a huge relief. Her family is amazing, and so accepting of me. It's so comforting to know that when things get unbearable, or even when they're good, that I have somewhere to go. Her house is more than just a place, it's a family that I often feel care for and love me more than my own. There are no words to describe my gratitude. I honestly don't know what I'd do without such an amazing friend, and family, to lean on. I would probably be stuck in the psych ward, and I'm not over-exaggerating.

As of now, I really don't know where I'm headed. I'm kind of just walking the line between normality and insanity, waiting for a quick, powerful wind to push me one way or the other. If I don't go to boarding school, if my mom keeps me at home and treats me like a child, I feel insanity is where I'll end up. Quite honestly, I feel like I've been waiting for an excuse to go completely insane for years. I know that sounds weird, but it's true.

Hopefully I'll find something other than my eating disorder to do this summer. My memory of last summer plagues me, and it's kind of hard to move on. I'm going to try, though. I plan to spend a lot of time with friends this summer, which will temporary occupy my mind. I hope it will occupy it enough to avoid relapse, but right now I'm not sure anything could.

Enough with the pessimistic attitude Erin!! This summer will be fantastic, and even if it isn't, it will still be a fantastic learning experience. (: