Suicide is painless

Hi everyone.  It seems like forever since I've done this,  and in so many ways it has been. So much has changed with my weight, my life, my health, and I need to catch all of you up on that,  but this is not the blog for that.  May is national mental health awareness month and it's an issue I hold close to my heart. Most of you know that I have struggled with mental health issues most of my life, and I still struggle to this day; but, since I have this forum,  I have decided it is time to show my cards and go deeper into the demons that I battle every day. I give warning now, some of this is graphic and not pleasant to hear, but hopefully it will give you a deeper understanding of what can happen when your insides shatter. I also want to say that I am not using any real names in this, most of the people I talk about I have come to know and love as adults and I don't want them feeling attacked or hurt by what I have written. Finally,  what you are about to read is actually part of a book I am working on. Not that my life is that fascinating, but when you are the adopted daughter of a gay man and a nun there is a story there - and I find it cathartic to tell it. So,  without further adieux, here it is:

SUICIDE IS PAINLESS

I remember little about that day, the day of "the attempt", as my parents have come to call it. I don't know if they call it that because they are blissfully blind to the eighty or so previous attempts, or if it's because this was the one that put me in the ICU. This was the one that I should not have survived. This was the one that they were told not to go home because I would be dead by morning. Whatever their reasons are "the attempt" would become an event that is rarely discussed in our family, it isn't polite dinner conversation after all, yet it changed the very fabric of what each one of us was irrevocably, subtly, in ways that I can still see now, some 17 years later.

As I stated my memories of that day are foggy at best. It was June, and it had already been blisteringly warm as is usual here. I remember waking and my skin feeling uncomfortable, like it belonged to someone else. I had plans to go to a friends to watch a movie that afternoon, but I was already so lost I couldn't convince myself to even fake wanting to. One month from 18, a high school drop out, I was staring at a future that I didn't want and a past that haunted me, and I had no idea how to cope with either. By that June day I was already a thief, a liar, a drug addict, a rape victim, a "child of molestation" (I hate that term, and no not by my father), and those were some of my finer qualities. 

For those of us in my circle of friends 1996-1997 was a devastating time. We were burying our friends, teenagers, babies really, more often than we were burying the elderly. When you are a teenager, death is an abstract idea, foreign, not something you face because it surely won't happen to you. Yet we were slapped in the face with the reality of it over and over again and I don't think any of us knew quite how to wrap our still forming minds around the idea that our youth didn't save us from mortality. To numb the pain, or to simply run away from what was going on around us, most of us clung to each other and turned to drugs and alcohol - it may not have solved anything, but at least it helped you forget. I followed the crowd.

To be sure, the deaths of my friends were more than shocking and painful to me - they cut me, and in some ways they insulted me. How dare death think he can come and take us now, now that we have survived freshman hazing, survived puberty, survived finals and horrible teachers, now that we were on the verge of finally starting and living our lives. Who did he think he was? I was able to rally my anger with those around me and use that as my excuse to drop acid, do a line of coke, smoke a bowl, shoot up, or honestly whatever the people at the house I happened to be at were doing at that time. The reasons for my pain, and the depth of it, stemmed from much further back, and it would take me years to come to terms with that fact, and I am still trying to deal with it.

I have no issues of abandonment as a result of being adopted, quite the opposite actually. My parents always emphasized that this made me special, chosen, I wasn't a "mistake" they had genuinely wanted me - and they could prove it. We celebrated two days in my house, my birthday and my special day - the day I came home and we became a family. I don't know if my parents came up with it or if they learned it somewhere, but it was a genius idea really. There was never the discussion of "is she old enough to understand", every year it was a celebrated part of my life, and I would later use that when my ex husband adopted my oldest child. The parts of my early years that I remember were normal enough. My mom had left the convent and become a nurse, my dad taught alternative needs children - not special education, but the kids that were on the short road to prison, he loved it. They were well known in town, members of the church choir, and had numerous friends that were always around and that loved me. It wasn't quite Norman Rockwell but it was close. Then everything changed.

Like almost every little girl in the eighties I was the consummate "daddy's girl". Sure, I loved my mom, but I lived for my dad. I would run home every day after school and crawl up on his lap, help him clip his cigar and wait patiently while he lit it, and then tell him all about my day at school. Then we would go and curl up on the couch and eat nachos while we watched Star Trek - the one with Captain Kirk. Right around my sixth birthday my dad said he wanted to take me out to dinner so we could talk. I remember how excited I was. I was going to get daddy time AND a happy meal, that was a huge day for me. While sitting at the table, happily eating my chicken nuggets and playing with my fries, my dad informed me that he and my mom were divorcing. At six, you don't know what that word means, so I asked. He explained to me that it meant he would no longer be living with us, but that meant I would have two bedrooms, two sets of toys, two places to play, two of everything, all in all it sounded like a pretty sweet deal to me. He had one more thing to explain to me though, the reason he was leaving. He explained to me that he was gay - again a concept foreign to a six year old - and that I couldn't tell this secret to anybody because most people hated that word and he didn't want me getting hurt.

It's been almost 30 years since that conversation, and it still breaks my heart when I think of what that must have been like for him, to have to warn his only child against telling the truth out of fear for her safety. I'm even more saddened that that conversation still has to happen today. The next day I watched my dad pack a suitcase and leave and my mom sit on the stairs and cry. It was the only time I'd ever seen her cry and I didn't know what to do, so I brought her my teddy bear and some kleenex and just hugged her. Later that day my friend next door asked me where my dad was and I told him about the divorce. When he asked what had happened, I told him what I had been told to say "things just weren't working out" - it's the first lie I had ever told.

I get asked all of the time what it was like being raised by a gay man and it makes me wonder how that is the best question people can think of to ask. Firstly, understand that because I was so young when he came out, I really didn't know any other way of life, so there was no adjustment period for me when it came to that - the only adjusting I had to do was to him not being in our home. Secondly, yes there were some perks - he likes to shop, I was frequently surrounded by drag queens, I was always showered in love, and I was always the bell of the ball. Thirdly, when most of my friends were learning how to braid their barbies hair, I was taking a class on AIDS/HIV safety because my dads best friend and the best man I knew was dying and I refused to leave his bedside.  At seven years old I was watching *Mark slowly fade away before me. This was years before AZT, or any real treatment for that matter - we were barely three years away from them calling it the gay mens cancer. Through it all he and his partner, *Brad, kept their spirits up, laughing, joking, loving each other. They would try each treatment as it came along, each new fad, some worse that the illness itself. In retrospect it had to have been a nightmare for Brad, who had HIV himself, to be essentially looking into the future. I hadn't left Mark's side for weeks when he finally insisted that I go outside and see the sun, go play on the swings, go see my friends, I didn't want to but I did because he asked. Two hours later my dad would pull up to my best friends house and would tell me Mark had passed, his final question had been "where's Becky?" I am crying as I write this, remembering the pain of that day, and I would relive that day some nine years later with my "grandpa".

Things in my life started changing then, I started changing then. You can't see that, can't feel that, without it changing you, and I was still as malleable as clay so I was profoundly effected. In the years that would follow I would lose several amazing men, including Brad, to AIDS and each one would cut me like a knife. I would travel to the AIDS quilt, I would see their squares, I would touch them, I would weep and wish I had just one more hug, feelings we all experience when losing someone. I didn't know how to handle my feelings though, after all I was seven, maybe eight.  I have a seven year old, I can't imagine asking her to process those emotions, that kind of illness. There was also the fear. Remember this was the eighties. We still didn't know much about the virus, how it was spread, what it would do, who could get it, how quickly it would kill you - we just knew that it WOULD kill you. In fact, over the course of my life, my dad would date several HIV positive men; and, although I knew they were as safe as possible, I would awake almost every night from a nightmare of watching my dad waste away the way I had watched Mark. I began to "cope" in different ways. The first, was food.

Both of my parents are famous for this. If you look even mildly upset they will offer you ice cream. You would think they were Italian but I swear they are German. We would have cakes, ice cream, cookies, the best mocha pudding, deviled eggs - my mom makes amazing deviled eggs - you name it we had it. Plus, my dad was just learning how to cook, so most nights there was pizza or a drive through involved. It happened slowly at first, the doctor said I was getting a little heavy and we should watch it, but nobody really said anything. The mindset was that I had been through so much at such a young age telling me no, even to my third bowl of ice cream, just wasn't going to happen. (The inability to tell me no was a pattern that would haunt me throughout my life). 

By the time Mark passed away I was already the tallest in my class, I was also the smartest, and I wasn't shy about it. I was that annoying brat in the front row that was always throwing her hand in the air and answering every question. I would stay after school to help clean up. I would volunteer for extra credit. I wore thick black glasses. You called it, I was a nerd. Nothing I could have done would have hidden that fact, and I am still a nerd to this day - although I have now learned how to embrace it rather than running from it. I got my period at seven and was mortified and told nobody, but that added an extra fifteen pounds to my already pudgy frame, and heaven forbid, breasts in the second grade. Thankfully I never suffered from acne, but that didn't matter, the bullies had long since drawn a bulls eye on my back and nothing was going to change it.

I can't remember how it started exactly. I can close my eyes and see my elementary school playground, I remember the swings, foursquare, tether ball, the marry-go-round (yes I'm old). I remember seeing my classmates around me and thinking they were all my friends, thinking I was just like them, not realizing that at least some of them had already decided that I was different and different wasn't good. I remember at some point during this, maybe when I was a little older I can't pinpoint the time, one of my best friends accused me of stealing a ring that her boyfriend (now husband) had given her. They even called the police. Yes, I had been a liar, yes we had stolen cigarettes from both of our parents by then, yes I wanted to fit in, but I swore then, and I swear to this day, I never took that ring, but that was my first lesson in not trusting anybody, even the people that are closest to you. I do remember doing little things to try and fit in. I remember I had these yellow hoop earrings with little rainbow hoops hanging from them that would jingle when I walked that I would wear even though to this day I hate earrings. I wore slap bracelets and the jelly shoes. I had a swatch watch. I folded my pants a certain way with a million slouchy socks. I crimped my hair, which was always horrible because I am really bad at doing hair. I talked about how hot Patrick Swayze and Rob Lowe were, even though I truly didn't care. I even read Nancy Drew and Babysitters Club in between the books I actually wanted to read. Some part of me knew, on some level, that I wasn't "normal" and I had to be, but nothing I would ever do would make that happen, so the bullying began.

I know it was little things at first. They would make fun of where I sat in class, so little by little I moved to the back of the classroom. Then it was how often I answered questions, so I slowly stopped raising my hand. There was one bully in particular that would torture me from second grade through high school, *Matthew. I can still see everything about him. For some reason I was always in class with him, and because our last names were close together he almost always ended up sitting behind me. He was horrible, everything that you think of when you think of a bully, Matthew was. I remember I wore white jeans and a blue comedy and tragedy t-shirt to school one day in the third grade and he sat in his desk: "Becky, hey Becky, you do know that while makes your butt look BIGGER, right?" We were eight, why would I care about how big my butt looked? To make my life so much easier, I also had a horrible dry scalp because I was a swimmer, Matthew LOVED this fact. He would frequently leave ads for head and shoulders on my desk, or travel size bottles. Soon others joined in with him and I was teased for everything I did, everything I said, and for things I couldn't control. 

Bullying is in the news constantly these days. As school shootings, cyber bullying, bullying in general, and teenage suicide are unfortunately rising in very public ways the powers that be are starting to notice and to wonder what went wrong with Americas youth, when did we lose our innocence, when did bullying become so common? Speaking from experience, it's always been there, we are just now finally starting to stop blaming the victim. With me, as the bullying got worse, I tried more and more drastic ways to control it, to make it stop. I dyed my hair, I cut my hair, I permed my hair - that was truly hideous, I looked like a frizzy pumpkin - I even got contacts. All to no avail. My next resort was a fatal and pathetic one that would haunt me for years, but as a child you can't make rational decisions, much less logical ones, and it made sense to me. I began to lie in the hopes that people would stop bullying me and would like me more. It never occurred to me that my lies were beyond ridiculous and see through, or that even if they were believable, once people figured out the truth they wouldn't like or trust me and the bullying would just get worse, I just wanted it to stop. I lied about everything to everyone, friend or foe, it didn't matter - and I'd like to pause for a moment and apologize to all of you that I did like while I was growing up, I know I was an idiot, I know you knew, and I know I was wrong. I am truly sorry. 

The lying not only made everything worse, it spiraled out of control. That's the thing with lies. Once you tell one you have to keep on telling them to try and cover up the original one and soon your so caught up trying to cover your own ass that you don't even know which end is up. By this point I'm fairly certain almost everybody hated me, I had turned into a pathological liar, I was no longer the girl who answered all the questions (although I was still a straight A student), and I had been bullied into a shell of my former self. Little did I know things were only going to get worse. 

At some point that year my dad started dating a man named *James. I was spending the weekend with my dad, and we had plans to watch my favorite movies - Dream a Little Dream, and Can't Buy Me Love - and eat pizza, and just generally hang out and be together. Dad came to pick me up Friday after school, and James was in the front seat of his car, on my weekend, smiling at me from the front seat like some victor that knew he had the upper hand, I hated him from the off. Dad introduced us and informed me that James would be spending the weekend with us so we could get to know each other. I had barely said five words to him and I knew I didn't want to know him, but I was still to young to voice my opinion and I cherished any time with my dad, so I said nothing. 

We got to dads apartment and I ran inside, ready to order the pizza - that was always my job on Friday nights - and put the movie in. When I got in the door, however, I was surprised to see a burger and fries waiting for me on the table. My dad came in right behind me and, seeing my quizzical look, explained that he had forgotten I was coming over this weekend and he and James had made plans to see a movie at the theater that night. It was too old for me, but he had rented my movies and I could stay home and watch them, they wouldn't be out too late. That was the first night in my life that he had passed me off and it began a pattern in my life that continues to this day. 

I know, in this day in age, the idea of leaving your seven year old alone to fend for herself seems absolutely unbelievable but back then it was nothing. My mom had left me a couple of times during the day to go to a meeting, and no psychiatrist had made a million dollars by discussing "helicopter parenting" yet. So, he popped in a VHS, sat me on his couch, and told me to not wait up. I tried not to show him how heart broken I was, but as soon as the door shut I cried until I fell asleep on the couch. I don't know what time he got home that night, but he must have carried me to bed, because that is where I woke up the next morning, ready to go swimming and to the zoo. However, James didn't like to go swimming, so he and dad were going to go look at yard sales, mom had said I could come home if I wanted to - I wanted to. For the next ten years my dad would make plans with me and forget. Or pick me up only to leave me alone with James. I can remember getting all dressed up, doing my hair, even putting on a dress (if you knew me you would understand) thinking that maybe if I was pretty enough dad would want to spend time with me. When that didn't work, I began to read every book I could get my hands on, Faust, Shakespeare, encyclopedias, Cummings, Poe, name it I was reading it. Trying to be pretty didn't work, and in my mind - and with help from the bullies, that was because I was anything but pretty - but maybe being the smartest would. By the time I was done trying to convince my dad I was worth his attention, I had learned to play several instruments, become a fairly good writer, begun to learn a couple of languages, been in a few plays, and joined a choir, and I was still spending more time with James than my dad. 

When I bring it up now, which isn't often because he and I have a very complicated a tense relationship, he states that he was absent for all of those years because he was trying to find himself as a gay man after so long pretending to be straight. Quite frankly I call bull shit. The way I see it is once you have children your window to go out and find yourself closes, especially if you have adopted those children - you lose the "oops, the condom broke" excuse at that point. Regardless, between him and the bullies at school I had been shown in every way possible that I was worthless. I can remember being as young as eight and wondering why god bothered to create something as pathetic as I and being unable to come up with any real answer. My mom was there, but in body only. She had left the convent with the sole purpose of being a wife and having children. To have her husband leave because he was gay was too much for her to handle and she had a nervous breakdown that she has never fully recovered from. The happy, loving, funny mom I had as a young child had been replaced by this shell of a woman, who was broken and angry and hurt, and I avoided going to her because I didn't want to be more of a burden than I already was. I can't say that I blame her for all of those feelings, I can't imagine what dad leaving and coming out must have done to her, especially with the era they grew up in; but, again, I was the child and I needed parents more than anyone knew.

As I stated, I had hated James the moment I laid eyes on him. I have been an empath as long as I can remember, and I tend to hear, feel, and sense what others are thinking. You are welcome to call me crazy here, you'd be accurate but not because of my abilities, I understand your disbelief; but, if you promise to give me the benefit of the doubt I promise not to sell you any elixir or snake oil. Something was just off about him. When he got near me, he would make my skin crawl. My dad knew I hated being around him, but that didn't change anything - they were still going to be a couple and I was still going to be left alone with him. That is very like my father, it's not that he is unsympathetic, but if your needs interfere with his than yours will wait. I don't remember much about how or when it began happening with James, I've blocked much of it out. I know I was around eight or nine when he began molesting me. Before I continue i want to make something very clear: homosexuality and pedophilia are not the same thing, they aren't even in the same universe. It sets my teeth on edge when people attempt to make the connection, because there is absolutely none. Homosexuality is simply being biologically wired to love someone of the same sex, pedophilia is a sickness in which you prey on children - it is illegal and does damage and there and many victims, James being gay had nothing to do with his fondness for little girls, so please don't try to connect dots that don't even exist.

Those days come in flashes, like blurry memories, not quite formed, just on the edge of reality. I know they are there, but my psyche won't let me access them fully yet. I can remember him coming into my room and touching me, or him coming into the shower while I was in there. I remember one day in the third grade we were taking a spelling test and I couldn't remember any of the words and I just started crying. My teacher couldn't understand what was wrong and I immediately panicked, I knew I couldn't tell, I saw so little of my dad as is, if I told on James I was afraid he would hate me and I would never see him again. I made up some lie to my favorite teacher, they were becoming second nature by that point, and she sympathetically hugged me and sent me to the office to calm down. I remember two years later being in my dads kitchen washing dishes and James came up behind me trying to touch me again. I was bigger at that point. Always tall for my age, I was approaching six foot before the sixth grade, and since food was my only comfort I was over 200 pounds by then. As I felt him get close to me, my hand brushed that handle of a butcher knife. I grabbed it and spun on him, pulling it on him and threatening him with it. I don't remember what was said, I do remember that he laughed but he did back nervously into the stove. I brought the knife with me into the bedroom and it was under my pillow when dad came home. James immediately told him that I was crazy and had pulled a knife on him completely unprovoked. Dad came into my room and found me in hysterics. I don't remember what story I made up about why I did it but it seemed to appease him, he let me be to cry for the remainder of the night in my bed. It was the last night I spent at dads house.

Telling my mom at the ripe age of eleven that I would never sleep at my dads again went over like a bag of bricks. She demanded explanations I was unwilling or unable to give, so I lied again. I told her that dad didn't want me there anyway, every time I went over he and James went out - which was partly true - and I was tired of feeling like a crate of oranges being shipped back and forth. For whatever reason, that argument worked and she agreed to let me stay at home from then on. I remember being relieved that James wouldn't be able to touch me again, not knowing what fate had in store for me in just seven weeks. For his part, dad didn't fight my decision to not go to his house any longer. Playing the role of parent had been an obvious burden since the day he moved out, and I was now making it so he could be even more removed with fewer excuses. All in all, everyone was happy and I thought life would get back to normal.

Middle school started, and while it was a coming of age for most of my friends, for me it was just another level to the nightmare of lies, abuse, and bullying that had become my life. At the start of sixth grade I was six feet tall, the tallest person in school - not girl, person. I was also the fattest. Due to the years of abuse and bullying I hadn't looked in a mirror since third grade so my brown hair just hung around my shoulders that were always slouched in an effort to make myself seem shorter. I didn't wear make up, although to be fair I still don't. I played the sax, not the flute or violin like the pretty popular girls. I was back to glasses and they had these thick black plastic frames. I had a mouth full of braces. Matthew still sat behind me in all of our general education classes. By this point my lies had alienated anybody that may have actually liked me, and I was to distrustful to give anybody a chance anyway. I essentially had one friend, she was a year older than I, we were polar opposites, we had bonded because we were both overweight and bullied by everyone, and that made us inseparable. If she wasn't at my house, I was at hers, usually for days, if not weeks on end. That's how I explain that nobody really noticed that I was gone at first, and that's what made the attack so easy to happen.

I'd been spending the week at *Maria's house. She had just gotten the new Super Mario Bros 3 and we wanted to see if we could beat it before school started. Her mom had purchased me a new outfit to try and make me more girly - a battle that mothers have been having with me since the dawn of time - so I was wearing it to make her happy. It's because of that outfit that I can still make the following events my fault. I was wearing a red sweater and a black puffy skirt with golden squares on it, I still don't wear skirts. Maria and I had been up for two days, playing Super Mario Bros and dancing to Madonnas Holiday and she had finally gone to bed. I usually slept with her, but I was still restless, so I had stayed in the living room to play the game a little longer. It was probably around 3 a.m. when I finally dozed off and about thirty minutes later when I heard Maria's brother, *Jesse, come home. Jesse and I hated each other. I don't mean we kind of disliked on another, I mean we loathed each other to the point we wouldn't be in the same room together - MobyBeck was probably the nicest thing he had ever said to me.

When I heard the door open and heard Jesse's voice I immediately tensed up waiting for him to just go through and go to his room. I could tell he was drunk and that he had a couple of his friends with him and he was always worse with me when there were others around. I laid there listening, waiting to hear the click of his door, but it never came, instead I heard footsteps coming towards me. I could feel my entire body on edge as I tried to escape further into the couch, but it wasn't enough, he sat on the edge of the couch next to me. I could smell the alcohol on him and my stomach turned, it's a reaction that I still have, and with good reason. Jesse reached up and brushed the hair out of my face, gently as if trying to wake me. All of my senses were on high alert. This was a man that hated me, and now here he sat, gently stroking my face. At 6'5", 275 pounds, I'd never seen Jesse be gentle to anything, least of all me, and I knew something was wrong, but I had nowhere to go. As he stroked my face he began to whisper, "Becky, sweetheart, have you ever had a man?" I need you to understand that I was eleven and naive, even though I had been molested by James, we didn't discuss what was going on, I had absolutely no idea what Jesse was asking me. It wouldn't take me long to figure it out.

I tried to just keep my eyes pressed closed, praying he would just go away, but it didn't work. It seemed like hours, but in reality it was only moments since he sat down, touched my face, and began talking to me. When I didn't answer he became enraged and wrapped his fist through my ponytail and pulled me off the couch. While he was dragging me up he hissed in my ear that if I yelled he would kill Maria or their mom, I stayed silent. He drug me by my hair into his bedroom where his friends were waiting, laughing as he threw me on the bed. He was able to get my clothes off in seconds, I truly believe that had I been wearing jeans he would have been too drunk to undo the button and he would have given up. There are moments in your life, both good and bad, that everything slows down so that you seem to be experiencing it in high definition, all of your senses are triggered, and your memory seems determined to take in every minute detail, for me this would forever be one of those moments.

I will not go into all of the details here. Not that I am ashamed of them or running from them, but they are graphic, and dirty, and dark, and very few actually know them. When this is in the book I will be more detailed and explain more of what happened, for here I don't think that serves my purpose. Here is what I will say: Over the next several days he raped me in every way you can be raped, when he or his friends would tire they would throw me in the bathroom and lock the door. It was this tiny bathroom with no window, a little shower, and these tiny multicolored tiles, I still can't go into a bathroom with those kinds of tiles. He used razor blades, whips, candles, a broom handle, and a clothes iron to either rape or beat and torture me. If he thought I would yell out from pain he would stuff my mouth with my own panties or the skirt, always reminding me that if I called out he would kill my best friend. I finally escaped when he and his friends had run out of meth and alcohol and had gone to buy more. I fled to the neighbors and they called 911. I was taken to the hospital where my parents were called and I was sedated so they could clean me and suture me and allow me to heal. I later learned that Maria and her mother had been told by Jesse that I had left early for a swim meet in Rocky Ford and would not be back until Monday which is why they didn't question my absence, and my mom just assumed I was having too much fun with Maria to check in. 

I was a virgin when Jesse raped me, and I remember when I finally woke up and was able to talk to the police in the hospital they were asking me questions I did not understand and the officers kept getting frustrated because I didn't know how to answer. They finally sent in a psychiatrist to speak to me hoping I would answer questions better for her and that was when I learned that Jesse and his friends were saying that I was a willing participant in the events that had transpired. I had asked for them to rape me, to hold a clothes iron to my back until the skin fell off, to whip my back and legs, to cut me inside so that I would require stitches and would make giving birth extremely difficult and that was IF I could get pregnant still, the doctors weren't sure yet. I remember the day I realized that nobody believed me, and that was probably my fault because I had been lying for so long. I didn't know what to do or how to convince them that I hadn't asked for this, that he did this, not me. I had never felt more alone in my life. My parents treated me like I was damaged goods, my best friend no longer spoke to me, the only people I had any association with were police and lawyers and they acted like I was a pariah, it was too much for my eleven year old mind to handle.

I was allowed to miss school until most of the bruises and cuts had healed, the theory being that I wouldn't have to explain myself to classmates upon my return. The teachers, principal, and counselors had been made aware of my "situation" so that if I needed anything I could go to them. I know that that was meant to be helpful, but nothing is worse than being looked at as if you are about to break at any moment, and the looks of pity in their eyes was horrible. I just wanted to go back to my life, it was bad enough we were still dealing with court, and now almost all of my teachers were treating me like I would lose my mind at the slightest provocation. 

I remember my first day back to school after missing almost a month. If I  was asked I was to tell them I had to have surgery. At least we all knew I was good at lying so that wouldn't be an issue. As I walked in the doors the first person I ran into was none other than Matthew. He took one look at me and asked where I had been. I told him my lie, just like I rehearsed, I had surgery and had to take time to let everything heal. His response? I should have asked for liposuction. I wanted to run home and hide, but I didn't. I suffered through the day of teachers looking at me "knowingly", sympathetically patting my shoulder and welcoming me back. The stares from the other kids. The rumors about my absence. In some ways it was like being raped all over again; however, I survived it, and even went back the next day. I didn't learn anything though. I was so full of guilt and shame, so disgusted with myself, that I just crawled further into myself. I wanted so badly to be one of "those girls", the pretty ones, the funny ones, the ones that everybody notices and just loves, but I knew I would never be, and now I was damaged on top of it. I could never even decide to whom I wanted to give my virginity. I would never have that moment. It would never be special for me, or with someone I love. Nothing would ever change that - least of all the courts. When "my day in court" finally came, a brand new Jesse appeared before the judge. He was clean cut, in a suit, he'd lost about 60 pounds, and threw himself on the mercy of the court. He explained that he had come from a broken, fatherless home, and as a result had turned to drugs and alcohol to make the pain lessen. He had seen the error of his ways though and wanted to make amends if given the opportunity, he was going to join the military. The DA and the judge went back and forth and they decided that this was a brilliant idea, they didn't want someone so young to have his entire life ruined if he was truly so remorseful, So, the adult male that raped and tortured me was handed to an army recruiter and told to make himself an asset to his country. They then agreed that the state would pay for a year of rape counseling for me. It was just another in a series of affirmations of my worthlessness when compared to the rest of the world.

I continued through middle school in a sort of haze, trying, and failing, to forget that I exist. By seventh grade I had begun cutting on a regular basis, I was also taking laxatives by the handful and making my self throw up if I so much as swallowed a bite of food; but, since I had good grades and always slapped a smile on my face, nobody took the time to notice. As far as everybody was concerned, I had survived fairly unscathed and life was moving on, my parents never mentioned the rape, and they didn't know about James, and I couldn't talk to anybody about the cutting or bulimia so I just existed in a state of denial and avoidance. Some memories stand out though, isn't that weird how that happens. I remember the day of the La Brea earthquake we didn't have school, but I had offered to go in and help one of my teachers grade papers - still a nerd at heart, and I still love that woman to this day. As I was walking from my house to school this car drove by me and yelled out of the window "fat bitch". I didn't know them, I don't know why they did that, but I can remember exactly where I was standing and the exact feeling of hurt and bewilderment of why a complete stranger would yell something so mean to me. I remember another day in the lunchroom I had caved an actually gotten food and was eating a drumstick - those ice cream cones - and had licked the chocolate off the wrapper. Matthew saw and promptly informed me that it wasn't required for me to eat the wrapper with the ice cream, I should try to contain myself. I still have issues eating in front of people.

In between seventh and eighth grade the most miraculous thing happened - the boys grew!!! I will never forget the first day of eighth grade. I came walking in the school doors and suddenly I noticed that I wasn't the tallest, not even the second tallest, there was like ten guys that had hit major growth spurts and were at least an inch taller than I. I was in heaven. I knew this year was finally going to be different. Of course, it took about ten minutes into the first day for me to be reminded that it didn't really matter that I wasn't the tallest any more, I was still fat, I was still a nerd, and there was still a hierarchy in school - and I was decidedly at the bottom. I plodded through eighth grade much like any other year. I made sure to get good grades so that nobody would look too closely or they would see all of the cracks just under the surface. I was cutting all of the time, smoking whenever I could get my hands on one, I had started drinking occasionally, I had started switching between anorexia and bulimia (I just knew that if I could be thin like them they would like me), and had begun to seriously consider killing myself I just didn't know how yet. 

About half way through eighth grade I was walking home from school, my too heavy new kids on the block back pack making my shoulders hurt, and lugging my barry sax, when a group of boys surrounded me. I remember being startled at first and then terrified, I didn't know yet what was going on, but I knew it wasn't good. I had never seen these kids before, they didn't go to school with me, and they didn't live by me, why were they here, and why were they surrounding me. "We know who your dad is", the biggest one said, "he's our teacher". Ok? I thought to myself. I was sure there was a point there, but I was missing it by a mile. "He's a fag. Fags don't deserve to live. Neither do their kids." And in that moment it all became crystal clear. I was six years old again, sitting with my dad as he made me promise not to tell anybody why he was leaving my mom. I had never broken my promise. Not even my best friends new why my parents got a divorce. Not that I cared, I was proud of my dad, proud of his sexuality, but that warning was always in the back of my mind, and now it was staring me in the face. There was literally nowhere to go, nowhere to run. They were all around me. I can remember their boots and red suspenders, but not their faces. I tried backing up, but instead ran straight into one of them and he grabbed my backpack to try and hold me still. I squirmed from the backpack just as I saw a fist flying towards my face, instinct reacted and I threw my sax case in front of me - thankfully it took the punch. Of course, I wouldn't stay so lucky, I was out numbered and out powered. By the time it was done, I had received a total ass kicking simply because of who my dad loved. They left me lying on the concrete as they took off running like the cowards they were. I finally regained enough composure to collect my things and limp home, More to protect my dads feelings than to protect myself, I told no one. That night was the first night I tried to kill myself.

I was already a cutter, so of course I tried to slit my wrists. And, like every idiot 13 year old, I did it incorrectly. It took me about two hours to figure out it wasn't going to work. If you are already at a point in your life where you feel like taking it, attempting suicide and failing is one of the worst feelings ever. You don't see it as gods way of saying, "hey, you, I have plans for you, you are loved and needed, it's not your time". You see it as you are such a huge failure that you can't even kill yourself correctly, and where do you go with that? When your mind is in that place you don't think you can go to people, you don't feel you have anybody to talk to, and even if you did the feelings are almost impossible to articulate anyway. It's like being in a black hole where everything just vanishes and you can't find your way out. I would try several more times throughout eighth grade, including trying to hang myself and to overdose twice, all with no success. Then, in February or March, everybody started preparing for high school and I started allowing myself to feel the slightest twinges of hope. Maybe high school would be different, maybe it would be better. Of course I still had to survive the last parts of middle school. Again, the strangest memories come back to me as I think of those times. They did the cheerleader tryouts for the freshman squad, Matthew made some comment but I had begun learning to tune him out, but there was this girl *April, that had never really said much to me - I mean she had never been nice, but she'd never been overtly mean either - that was floating down the hall the way only newly crowned popular people do. She stopped and looked at me and I felt like I had to say something, so I said "congrats on making the squad"; she looked at me and said "yeah, I thought you'd tryout, but you'd never be able to zip up the skirt." Side note, I saw her about four years ago and the inner bitch in me did a happy dace to notice she was twice my size.

Eighth grade ended, finally closing a chapter in my life full of pain, self punishment, hate, and fear - and those were the good days - and I was finally on my way to what I had hoped would be the best part of growing up. I had wanted to be a bulldog my entire life. My aunt was a teacher there, and I can remember helping her decorate her classroom before I was even in kindergarten. I was going to the bell game with red and white pom poms when I was three. Unlike my classmates, who were afraid of being the babies of the school again, I embraced the idea of a fresh start with new people that didn't know my past, that didn't know me, and I clung to the idea that everything would be better when I walked through the doors. Of course, simply changing a building didn't change the core of the people that had taken bullying me to a sport any more than it changed that I was a broken pathological liar desperate for relief.

I tried to change things in high school, at least I told myself I was trying. I joined the swim team because I have always loved being in the water and had been on the city swim team for years. Never did it occur to me that stuffing my over sized body into a swim suit and then diving into a pool was essentially handing certain people invitations to be cruel. Add to it I was surrounded by amazingly beautiful girls all of the time. They had little waists, long hair (that they actually styled), they wore makeup, and they were all friends - no matter what I did I would never fit it. I have two distinct memories of that time - again those strange memories that hang on and you don't really know why. One of them the swim team had been invited to our coaches house for sandwiches after practice, but nobody had told me, I found out by accident and my mom dropped me off. I still remember that look of "why are you here, how did you find out?" mixed with the embarrassment of all of them knowing they had intentionally not told me so that I wouldn't be there. Of course, our couch would only figure out nobody had told me when there weren't enough sandwiches to go around. By then I was the mortified party crasher, and it was only getting worse because they were making an issue of having to feed the fat kid in front of everyone. If I could have ran out of the door and home I would have, but I was a fat kid - I didn't run. The other one is an even stranger memory, no matter what context you take it in. Obviously, since we were on the swim team, we were in suits every day and most weekends, it was part of life (to this day chlorine is one of my favorite smells). When you live in a swimsuit you also live with a razor so that you can shave at least once a day, and you usually keep one somewhere on you in case you missed something. We were sitting on the side of the pool listening to our coach talk about the centennial invite that was that weekend and two of the girls that I envied more than anyone were sitting next to me. *Lori and *Michelle were gorgeous, smart, funny, popular, they were everything - they still are today - and I always felt eclipsed by their mere presence. Michelle was complaining to Lori because she was on her period and it was inconvenient (well they are) and Lori said to her "you know what I just couldn't STAND??!! If I had so much pubic hair that it came out the bottom of my swimsuit and everybody could see it. That would be disgusting. I would just shave it all off. Or never where a swimsuit again. It's gross!" As she uttered these words I watched her look over at me before she looked back to Michelle. To this day I have no idea if she was talking about me, if I was even on her radar, but I can still hear every word in my head like an accusation, reminding me just how gross, how different I was; and, that night, I went home and shaved everything I could think of while sobbing on the side of the bathtub.

I had also joined drama club, and even more than the water, this was where I thrived. I absolutely love the theater, and I'm good at it. Any genre that allows me to be someone, something, other than what I am is perfect for me. Also, drama is usually made up of misfits, of outcasts, of the people that don't care if they fit it, they live to be different. I have no doubts that, had I allowed it, I would have found a group of people that would have loved my broken, my pieces, my hurts, but I simply wasn't ready. I tried, I swear I did. I would have so much fun with *Jeremiah, *Natasha, *Nathan, *John, *Adam, *Lynn, the list goes on and on, that I would almost forget myself, I would forget who I was. Then something would happen, I can't even tell you what it was, and everything would come rushing back and I would remember that I wasn't good enough for this group of people. That thought terrified me, even more frightening to me was waiting for the day that they would realize it and kicked me out of their group, stripping me of the only solace I had found in years. So, I fell back on the only thing I knew - lying. I told lie after lie to these people. These wonderful, loving, kind, gentle, unique, souls. I knew that I wasn't good enough for them, I knew I didn't deserve to be included in such a group, I knew I didn't deserve to have fun, I didn't deserve to laugh, I didn't deserve the love they were so willingly giving, so I would tell them lies to make them think that I deserved it - at least that was my reasoning behind it. It never occurred to me that they could see right through was I was saying and it was having the opposite effect. I truly wasn't lying to make myself feel better, I was lying in the hopes that someone would think I was cool, I was worthy, I was lovable. In the end it just drove everybody away - well, it drove all of the good ones away.

At this point in my life everything began moving very rapidly and changing quickly - and at this point in my blog you have been patiently reading for a very long time so I am going to change things just a little. I'm not going to go year by year from here on out, for a couple of reasons: I started using drugs right around this point, so I don't have a completely clear and concise timeline of everything that transpired, and my life was no longer shaped by years, but more by a series of events that piled on top of each other until I that fateful day when I decided that there was truly no point in struggling any longer. I do want to take a moment and say to those of you that are still reading thank you for sticking with me for this long. I know this is ridiculously long, and I apologize - I didn't mean it to be. I just started writing and everything started coming out. I needed the story to be complete, I needed people to understand. I needed to forgive myself. I needed some of you to forgive me. I needed to write this. So, thank you, truly, especially to those of you that have stuck with me for more than just this blog - I love you.

Towards the end of freshman year I had been dating a guy *Josh and it seemed to be going ok. He was a sophomore, we went to the same church, he had a car, and he never pushed for anything. He knew nothing about my past, like so many after him, but I was grateful that I never had to explain why I just couldn't touch him "like that", I simply wasn't ready. We were at the state fair that year when he decided that he was tired of just making out and getting to second base - I still have no idea what the bases are or who defines them, is there a book out there or something - so he dumped me in the middle of the midway. Watching the whole pathetic ordeal was another male I went to school with *Dustin. Dustin and I didn't know each other well, he was very gothic, shorter than I (which is still a big deal to me), we didn't have any classes together, and didn't really know any of the same people - I honestly still have no idea why he approached me as he watched Josh walking away.

He came up behind me and put his trench coat around my shoulders, and I startled. For obvious reasons I don't like people coming up behind me. As I jumped, however, he started stroking my hair and shushing me quietly, brushing the tears out of my eyes. Somehow none of this struck me as odd. Here I am, crying by myself in the rain at the fair, and some guy that I barely know puts his jacket around my shoulders and is running his hand through my hair and caressing my face, and I felt powerless to stop it. My being powerless was a key part of our relationship. Dustin sat there and talked at me - I say at because I didn't really say anything in return, most of his statements weren't really looking for responses anyway - and eventually he informed me that he was driving me home. I blindly followed him out the gates of the fair to his truck, by this point holding his hand, which I recall so well because I was wondering "how did my hand get in his, why am I holding his hand, what is his name again, something is wrong here, I should stop this." I didn't though, I couldn't, some part of me enjoyed that I was getting attention even as my psyche screamed against it. Dustin drove me home and asked if he could "call on me" the next day, and I said yes - I've often wondered what would have happened had I just had the strength to say no.

Dustin arrived at my house the next day with flowers and asked if I would like to go for a walk. I had never been given flowers before, so I was immediately smitten and swept away by the romance of it. I remember every detail of that walk. It had rained earlier that day and as we walked there was a puddle, he took his jacket off and placed it over it so my feet wouldn't get wet. I can chuckle at it now, but at the time I remember I had seen it in the old time movies I watched and I was so swept up in all of it. Dustin literally did everything he could to take my breath away, including asking for permission to kiss me for the first time on our third date. I was head over heals in love with him, as much as any sixteen year old can be, and I would have stopped the moon for him, and he knew it.

It started slowly enough, and actually in a good way. He didn't like the fact that I was a cutter, so he "requested" that I stop, so I did. He preferred that I wear black clothing, so I did. We had been together a very short time when we started having sex and he informed me he didn't like the feeling of condoms, he would refuse to wear them and I was not to take birth control, if our destiny was to have a child, then we would have a child, and somehow I was ok with that. I know it sounds strange, I should have just said no, but I couldn't. Of course, I'm leaving out huge portions of our conversations, but it was like slow brainwashing, little by little he took away my ability to do or say anything that may displease him, that may make him want to leave me. He was the first person to "love" me, and the threat of taking that from me was too much to bare. The first time he hit me, he swore was an accident. He had started believing he was a vampire and had said that he wanted me to "turn", to become one with him. When I said no, he backhanded me to the floor. Instantly his manner changed. He picked me up, back to my feet, straightening my clothes and helping me clean the blood from my mouth. He asked me what had I done to make him do that. I was to confused by this sudden change in him, and to scared of what could happen next, to even answer.

Like my rape, I will spare you the details of the next several months. The abuse grew, as abuse does, until it was a daily thing that nobody seemed to notice. I was terrified to move without permission from him. By this point he fully believed he was a vampire - would you believe I managed to date TWO guys that believed that, seriously, I'm that good at picking them - to the point that he avoided sunlight, crosses, etc. Our relationship came to a gloriously public end however. I awoke one morning to him straddling my chest with a knife to my throat. My mom worked graveyards so I was alone in the house, and I was instantly panicked. Pressing the knife to my throat he gave me two options, he could either slit my throat and kill me, or he could cut me and drink my blood and them cut himself and I would drink his thus making me his vampire bride and binding us forever. This was an easy decision, I didn't want to die, at least not in that fashion. He took his knife and proceeded to cut my left breast wide open, it hurt like hell because the knife was dull and he went slowly enjoying watching my skin part. By the time he was done I had a seven inch laceration starting just above my left nipple and circling up and around from there - for those of you that know me, my Mykayla tattoo now covers most of the scar that was left behind.

When everything was done, and I had been turned into his "bride", he noticed that the sun was about to rise, so he had to quickly flee to his home lest he be caught it it's toxic rays - back then vampires didn't sparkle ladies, I'm just saying. I proceeded to clean everything up so my mom wouldn't find out and try and clean and bandage my breast, I have had many wounds, I have been stabbed, I have been raped in horrible ways, I have been beaten, for whatever reason trying to clean that cut was some of the worst pain ever. I got my sheets in the laundry and I threw out the nightshirt and went to school. Three days later the cut was horribly infected. My entire breast was red, nothing I did was cleaning it out, I knew I needed medical attention, but I had no idea how to get it without getting him in trouble, so I just dealt with it. That morning, as I was at my locker, Dustin came up with a note for me. As he handed it to me I thought he said "read the letter" I would later find out he said, "read it later", mainly to cover his own ass. Always one to follow his orders, I opened it up and within three sentences I was seeing red. He was dumping me, via letter, for essentially not being good enough for him. He was using every pathetic cliche you can think of - "it's not you it's me", "I want to still be friends", "you're so much better than I am" - what he didn't know what that I had found out that morning he was sleeping with my best friend behind my back. Have you ever seen that television show Snapped? I totally understand it, my mind went blank. I grabbed him by the shirt and just beat him until someone pulled me off of him. He had been kicking my ass and brainwashing me for nine months and now I wasn't even good enough to be a punching bag? My left breast was so infected I was fairly certain I had sepsis and it was all so that we would be "bound forever" and 72 hours later I didn't make the cut? I lost it, literally, I have absolutely no memory of beating him up, only the stories I have been told by the witnesses from that day.

Dustin ran home and I went back on with my life. As I walked into school the next morning, I was met by the security guard. I was informed that once Dustin had gotten home he had told his mom I'd beaten him up and she had called and filed a complaint. At that point I was still a good student. I wasn't really a good person, but I still had the good student angle going for me, so they were dubious at best. The security guard approached me and stated that Dustin's mother had called and issued a complaint against me for assaulting her son, did I have anything to say, an explanation for my actions the previous day. Remember I was a teenager, a very broken, very damaged teenager, by that point in my life my eating disorder was consuming most of my day, I was running out of places to cut without being caught, I felt caged and trapped and worthless, I essentially had no parental figures - certainly not ones I could speak to about anything meaningful - so I reacted, I didn't think, I pulled off my shirt in the middle of the hallway and let the security guard see my now clearly infected completely inflamed left breast. "You want to know why I kicked his ass, that's why" I said, as I pointed to my chest. The guard reacted instantly, throwing her coat over me to cover me, but she had a look of genuine concern in her eyes when she asked why I hadn't told anybody. My emotions were so close to the surface by that point, so on edge, that I was almost in tears so all I could do was shrug. I was ushered down the hall into the tiny security office where they shut the door and began to take my statement. Immediately I wanted to flee, to run, this was too much like years earlier and I knew what had happened then.

They began taking pictures of my breast, explaining that nobody but the police would see them, as if that would calm me, and they called my mother and the paramedics. I was having flashbacks so badly by that point that I could barely breathe, yet, strangely, nobody seemed to notice. I gave statement after statement, describing in detail what had happened to my breast; and, since I had removed my shirt, I now had to explain the self inflicted cuts on my body plus the numerous bruises from Dustin that were still in the process of healing. The EMTs arrived at the same time as my mother, and that was yet another nightmare of once again explaining what had happened and why - it never once occurred to anyone that it might be painful or embarrassing having to constantly tell this story so maybe one of them could fill in the paramedics or my mom, they just left it up to me. Thankfully I was saved an ambulance ride when mom convinced them she would drive me, the down side to this was time alone in a car with her extolling upon me all of the reasons this was ultimately my fault and had I just walked away to begin with we would have never been here. Ultimately I got a decent amount of stitches and it was decided that Dustin needed help more than he needed jail so he would spend the next several years in and out of the state hospital as they attempted to properly diagnose and medicate him so he could exist in society without being a harm to himself or others - through the grapevine I hear they were mostly successful and I wish him luck.

That, for me, was sort of the beginning of the end - the catalyst if you will. Up to that point, I had been a tinder box, just waiting to ignite, but there had been no spark, that incident had done it. After everything my young mind had been through, it simply couldn't take anymore - I was in full self destruct mode. I began skipping classes, in fact, I'm not entirely sure if I went back for a full day after that. I started drinking daily, which for me is still surprising because I hate alcohol, and I hated it then. Finally, I discovered drugs, and I was content, or I thought I was at least. It didn't matter what the drug was, I would do it, and I would love it - the more mind altering the better. It was like theater, only better. I could snort, smoke, swallow, inject, drop, something and suddenly the world was beautiful again. I would forget all of my problems, all of my pain, I would feel like I was put back together.

I had two sets of people that I did drugs with. One set were genuinely good people, we mostly dropped acid, smoked weed, and got exceptionally drunk whenever possible. We were teenagers and friends and we cared for each other. We were the group that I mentioned earlier, bound by both life and death. It was our friends that were being taken by murder, car accidents, illness, all too young, too beautiful, too kind, too amazing to be gone at such an age. I can remember in my few moments of clarity wondering why God would be so cruel, and so stupid, that she would pick these perfect children to die when someone like myself still littered the face of the earth, I would find my answer in my next line of coke. When I was with this group we had fun, we laughed, we loved, we cried, we were a family, and I would still drop anything for any one of them today, no matter what they needed.

My other group couldn't have been any different. Typical drug dealers and addicts, they would do anything for, and because of drugs, all kinds of drugs. I learned how to shoot up heroin, do lines of coke, meth, x, pcp, name it, I tried it, usually enjoyed it, and seldom payed for it. No, I was not a "puddle slut", as they are often called, I refused to sleep with someone to get my high. Instead I allowed everyone the use of my home whenever they needed it, and with it they had a fully stocked kitchen, a place to sleep, shower, and do whatever deals they needed to, all without questions from me; or, until I got my apartment, my mother since she was either gone or "gone".

I escaped into this world of drugs and parties and drinking, often staying awake for weeks on end. At first, I even tried to fit the occasional day of school and extra curricular activity in with all of my growing life avoidance. That came to a crashing halt at an FBLA tournament that I showed up to after five days of acid, weed, and alcohol. I had actually forgotten about the competition until that morning, so I had flown home, grabbed the quickest shower ever, thrown on some sort of business attire, and arrived at school with seconds to spare. I slept on the way to county, and was not even able to fake coherence by the time we arrived. At the time, the wall of the commons at PCHS had this gigantic Tweety Bird painted on it, about the only thing I remember from that day was spending about three hours talking to it and misspelling my own name on my business ethics test. Considering just the year before I had won first place and had gone to State with FBLA, it was quite a fall from grace. I know that my teachers were well aware of how far I had fallen, and they were desperate to help, but my parents were just as desperate to ignore it and I was quite content to continue my spiral until I overdosed and didn't wake up.

Everything from that day on is just one huge blur that I can't distinguish. I have memories, some so vivid I can tell you everything in exacting detail, some so obscure I'm not even sure what month, or even year, they happened in, but they were all leading up to my breaking point. By May of 1997 we had been through an endless procession of funerals, each as sad and painful as the one before, each as senseless. Seeing my friends die was horrible enough, but I was dealing with something even more personal on top of it. During this time, the man that I knew and loved as my grandpa had been diagnosed with cancer and had decided he was not going to fight it. He was in his eighties and he wanted his final months to be full of life and love, not doctors and pain. Now that I am an adult I understand, but at the time I hated him for not being willing to fight to live, even if it was only for a few more months, I had lost so much, I couldn't lose him too.

I can't quite put into words what grandpa meant to me. My family is from New York so the only family I had here were my parents, grandpa was part of our church group that went to breakfast on Sundays, he had adopted me when I was about 5 and had been my grandpa ever since. He would sit with me and make ice cream sculptures. He could play the organ, he could also play the saw, he knew a fabulous song called the prune song that I would beg him constantly to sing to me and he always would. When I got older and I started acting out because of everything that had happened, he was the only one of my godparents that didn't turn his back on me. The first time I got admitted into lock up for mental issues, he was the only person to visit. When I got released, he was the only one to talk to me and tell me it was ok to not be perfect. He supported me wanting to be an actress, he supported me wanting to be anything, if it was my dream, if it would make me happy, then it would make him happy. He was then, and is still to this day, the only person that ever showed me unconditional love.

As grandpa got sicker I began to take constant vigil at his side. Much as I had all of those years earlier, I refused to leave. I would get him pudding, water, food, medicine. I helped wash him, I would put cold cloths on his forehead, or give him warm blankets, if he needed it I was there to get it for him. I knew he was dying but I was convinced that I could love him enough to make him well, to keep him around longer, to keep him with me. Then it was May. He had watched as I had tried and failed to cope with the deaths of all of my friends. He knew I was using drugs. He knew about the anorexia and the bulimia. I knew it hurt him deeply. I knew he just wanted to hold me, he just wanted to huge me so tightly that it would make it all better, but he couldn't, he didn't have the strength any longer. It had started growing warmer, the seasons changing as they do, and I had dozed off with my head on my grandpas bed. He gently shook me awake and I instantly startled and began to ask what he needed, was he cold, hot, hungry? What could I get for him? He quieted me with his hand on mine and he smiled. Again, I was brought back to my final days with Mark, and I was struck with how many similarities there were in these two men, despite how different their circumstances were.

"Becky," grandpa began,"you are a young woman. Much to young to be stuck inside of a house watching this old man every day." I began to protest, to tell him that I loved him, that there was nowhere else I wanted to be, but again, he quieted me. "For me, Becky, go out and play. Even if it's just for a little while. Go and enjoy your friends, go enjoy the sun. Go enjoy being a teenager. You can come back later and tell me all about it. Please." Again, there was that request, for me to leave a man I loved so much while he was sick, but I never denied my grandpa anything. My best friend lived just a few blocks away, close enough for me to come running if anything happened I reasoned. I hugged my grandpa as hard as his fragile body would allow and kissed him, I told him how much I loved him, and I made him promise me that he would be there when I got back in two hours. Somehow I didn't notice that he never promised, he just kissed me back and told me he loved me to. He then told me to remember that no matter what happens I always need to go have fun - even that didn't bring me the pause it should have.

Less than two hours later, there was a knock on my best friends door, it was my mom. I could hear her talking with his mom, I could hear them whispering upstairs, I could hear the gasp, some part of my conscious knew, but I refused to accept it, I refused to acknowledge what was about to happen. When they finally called me to come upstairs I took as long as possible before even admitting they were speaking to me, and I took even longer walking up the stairs. I actually waited until my name went from "Becky" to "Rebecca" before I finally made it to the kitchen where they were waiting. Mom had tears in here eyes and my best friends parents were looking at me with that look everybody gives you right before they shatter your world. "Becky, it's about grandpa...." those are the only words I heard. I ran. I ran as fast and as far as I could. I knew I could out run it, that I could run so fast and so far that he wouldn't be dead, it wouldn't be real. I kept running until I couldn't run anymore. Until my lungs were screaming from an asthma attack and my legs were shaking in protest and even then I still tried to run further, my body just wouldn't allow it.

I looked around and had no idea where I was, some school, and I saw a grove of trees against a fence. I crawled into it, hiding myself in between branches, brambles, and leaves. I tried to scream, I wanted to cry, I needed to do something, but no sound would come out. It was like my body was still protesting the fact that my grandpa was actually gone and if it allowed itself to cry, to make a noise than that would be it, it would be final, he would be gone and nothing would ever bring him back. My one and only constant and faithful ally throughout my ENTIRE life had left me and I couldn't even cry, so I just sat there and stared, allowing the void that was now there to consume me. At some point my best friend actually found me, to this day I don't know how he did it, and he gently guided me back to his house and to the reality that awaited me. I spent the next several days going through all of the proper motions. I consoled grandma. I helped with the funeral. I stayed at the funeral home the same way I had by his bed. Through it all I never cried; in fact, my tears for him would not come until years later, it was just a pain too deep for me to allow myself to feel.

The day after the burial I packed a bag with money, drugs, and maybe one change of clothes and took off for Denver to stay with a friend for a few weeks. I'd been up there nine days, blissfully high, totally unaware of reality, time, pain, anything, when my mom started trying to get in touch with me. I ignored her for most of the day, there was nothing she had to say that I wanted to hear, and I wasn't going home anytime soon, so there was no point to actually answering her page (yes page, this was before everyone and their 2 year old sister had a cell phone). Finally, around eleven pm, she had sent me around 40 pages, I caved and found a pay phone. I figured if I called she would at least leave me alone so I could continue destroying my life without having to ignore her every ten minutes. When she answered the phone on the first ring every warning signal in my brain went on high alert. Instead of snapping at me for not answering her all day or asking where I was or what I was doing she told me to sit down - I remember one time I didn't sit down and that was when I realized why you are told to do it. Sometimes, with some news, it feels like you stayed right where you are but the entire world just dropped about 100 miles below you - so I sat. She was paging to tell me that, that morning, B.J. my beloved dog since Kindergarten had passed away.

I can understand those of you that are rolling your eyes right now, thinking "it's just a dog" - but he was my family. For the record all of my pets still are. And I had had B.J. my entire life, my dad got him for me about three months before he divorced my mom. Just like grandpa he had always been there, and now they were both gone. Once again everything is a blur. I don't remember getting in my car or making the drive home from Denver. It was all just too much, I was done. In one of my cocaine fueled stupors about a month before I had stolen my moms check book and had written about $25,000 in checks, and I knew I was about to get caught for that. All of my friends were dying around me. I had hit a point in my life that I felt so worthless that I would sleep with anybody that was even kind to me. I was cutting so much that I had scars on top of scars. I had already been arrested several times and I knew it was going to continue happening which terrified me. I was a high school drop out which meant no matter what I did, from that moment forward, I would always be a failure to my parents. And, now, the two "people" that had always loved me, always supported me, always been by my side, always been there no matter what I did were gone. What was left?

I don't remember that day, to be honest I don't even remember making the decision to kill myself, to say this is the day, I am done, it's official. I woke up that June morning though and something about it made it my last. I remember feeling the need to still go through the motions of the day. As I had mentioned, I had plans to go watch a movie with a friend that afternoon, and I always talked with one of my closest friends *Chris, around 3 in the afternoon which would be right before I went over to *Jennifers for the movie - I would have no idea how fateful that phone call would wind up being. I had failed at killing myself countless times by this point, so I knew exactly what to do to make sure that I wouldn't fail this time, I even knew the timing of everything. I waited until one hour before I was supposed to be at Jennifers house and that's when I took action. I took every pill in my house. I'm not talking tylonel or advil, although I did take those as well. My mom suffers from high blood pressure and chronic heart disease, and she got her pills in three month supplies - I took all of them. At the time they had decided I was bipolar and schizophrenic, I was on antipsychotics, antidepressants, antianxiety, and sleeping medications, also in three month supplies, and I took them as well. Once I had taken everything, I made my daily call to Chris. I would later ask him what it was about it that made him wonder, made him worry, and he said it was the tone of my voice and the fact that I said goodbye to him, not I'll talk to you later - I have no memory of that conversation.

I walked to Jennifers to watch the movie, she just lived around the corner, and figured that I could watch it and then go home, die, and nobody would even notice. I can remember not feeling well about an hour into the movie so I told her as much and that I wanted to go home, that is my last memory. From what I have been told I staggered home as if I were drunk. I somehow made it upstairs and curled up on my moms floor where I began to get sick. Chris couldn't shake his feeling that something was wrong, that I had done something, and - when I wouldn't answer my phone or his pages - he called 911. Mom was downstairs watching TV when EMTs pounded on her door. I can't imagine her shock or what she must have felt considering she had no idea what what going on upstairs and neither she nor I had called them. By the time they found me I had no real vital signs. My pulse was thready and weak, I wasn't breathing, and they couldn't get a blood pressure.

I was worse at the ER - if that's possible - when they began pumping my stomach. Nobody knew exactly what I had taken, or in what quantities, all they knew what that I was deteriorating quickly and it was very likely I wouldn't survive the next hour, much less the night. At some point, after working on me for a very long time, they were somehow able to get me stable enough to put me in the ICU, however they weren't holding out any hope. They told my parents not to go home because I would most likely not survive the night. Defying all odds, however, I did survive that night, and the next and the next, until the conversation became not IF I would survive but what condition would I be in if I woke up. After two weeks in a coma I did wake up; and, once again I defied the odds. I was "intact". My speech, my motor skills, my ability to walk, my vision, none of it seemed to be effected. The only thing they could find that had been damaged from my suicide attempt was my heart which had been weakened because of all of the cardiac medications I had taken causing a slight arrhythmia. To the doctors and my family it was a miracle, to me it was like waking into the seventh circle of hell.

Not only had I once again failed at taking my own life, but now all of my secrets were out. When they had cut my clothing off they had found all of the scars from my years of cutting. When they had intubated me that had found the damage from years of making myself vomit. Then there was the attempt itself. I was never left alone. There was always some poor nurse, med student, CNA, someone that was required to babysit me because I was on a 24 hour watch until I was healthy enough to be sent to the psychiatric facility. Some of my babysitters seemed to genuinely care, some were cool - we'd play cards or checkers, some were horrid. I had one that happened to know both of my parents and he was offended simply by the fact that I had disgraced our family name by daring to be selfish enough to try and kill myself. It didn't matter how cool they were though, if they were hoping that one day they would walk in and suddenly I'd crack and open up they were sorely mistaken.

I know by now you are wondering if there is even a point to all of this, and maybe their really isn't much of one other than the fact that it is cathartic for me. I don't believe that though, I am hoping to help bring an understanding into the mind of someone that is living with, and dying from, mental illness. If just one person reads this and understands a little better or a little more, than I've made my point. I was 17 when that overdose happened. Between my time in the ICU, then the cardiac unit, then general unit, and then finally the psychiatric facility I would spend close to three months in the hospital, all of it achieving nothing. I remember my first day at the psych ward, I was talking with my roommate about the other clients, there was a 8 year old boy in there with us who was there because he had lit his house on fire after trying to strangle his little sister - and that was his good quality. We were lumped in with addicts as well, but I wasn't getting help for my addictions because I wasn't there for addiction, I was there for being suicidal.

The stigma of "being mental" has been thick and horrible for as long as anybody can remember. I can recall shortly after getting released being at a breakfast with my godparents and somebody told a joke that included the word crazy - the entire table got very quiet and look uncomfortably at me. Seventeen years later that stigma is still there. Insurances refuse to cover mental health, or they dictate how many sessions you can have with a therapist or psychiatrist, what medications you can and can't take, how many refills they will pay for, will you be inpatient or outpatient. There is a room full of suits that have business degrees, not medical degrees, deciding whether or not your mental stability is worth their dollar and it's disgusting.

That was not my first trip to the psych ward, nor was it my last suicide attempt. What people understand is that when you get to that point in life, when you hit that wall, it isn't just because you failed a math test. I hear all of the time euphemisms like "just shake it off", "tomorrow is a new day", "if you just smile everything will be better", and it's honestly crap, it's a bandaid on a bullet. Not all hurts can be kissed away, especially when it's years and years of hurts that have piled up, that you have never learned to cope with, that you have chosen to ignore or pretend they aren't there. Or when they are so large and so traumatic that your mind can't wrap itself around it, it's like staring at the ocean and wondering where to start swimming, it's simply too daunting so you run from it. If you do not have the right support system, if you do not have the right doctors, friends, family, and usually brain chemistry, then you are doomed. You will start swimming in that ocean and the waves are going to drown you. Believe me, the waves have gotten me more times than I can remember.

And it's just now, at 34, that I am finally starting to navigate my ocean, finally surviving my waves. I have found an amazing psychiatrist and a fabulous therapist. I am in love with a wonderful man that love me for my pieces, not for how well I hide my broken. I am best friends with my ex husband - which sounds strange, I know, but he gives me a since of consistency and familiarity that brings me comfort, and after all of these years he knows me better than anyone and still loves me anyway. I am a mother to three amazing girls that give me a reason to live on the days that I still search for one. I finally understand that mental illness is a fatal disease, and kills more people every year than anyone realizes. And I am learning to forgive. I know when I say that, everyone assumes I mean I forgive the men that beat me or raped me, or forgive my bullies, but that's not the case. I'm finally learning to forgive myself for the past, for all of the mistakes that I made, for all of the lies that I told, for all of the people I hurt, for all of the things I allowed to happen, and that, for me, is that most difficult step to take.

As I close this out, I am thinking about a very dear friend of mine, Holly. For those of you that watch Greys Anatomy, Holly was my person. We met several years ago and we would talk or text whenever we could, we bonded over our broken. I loved her and trusted her fiercely. Whenever I felt myself getting too close to that edge, when I could feel myself slipping, feel myself questioning my worth, she was to whom I would turn, and I would do the same for her. We had so many mutual pieces, we spoke the language of the damaged, and we understood each other. There was never any judgement between us, only love. I would have walked over fire to pull her back, and I know she would have done the same. She had a sister that loved her more than life, and a mother that loved her just a fiercely. She had nieces that were her life. And, still, we couldn't catch her, it wasn't enough. In one brief moment one month ago, my person made the decision that this world was better without her in it and we were forced to tell her goodbye far too soon. I'm left struggling to forgive myself again, wishing I had caught on, wishing I had known, wishing I could have loved her enough so that she could love herself.

Of course, that is impossible. It would have been impossible for me, it was impossible for my nephew, it was impossible for Holly. Sometimes your ocean seems too big, too scary, too overwhelming. So, why am I even telling you this? If someone is going to do it anyway, what does it matter? Well, quite simply, because you never know when some small action from you could change the world. I try to smile and make eye contact with everyone I see. Why? Because the worst feeling in the world is being invisible. Had Chris not called 911 simply on a feeling, I wouldn't be here today. I have spoken with people that decided to kill themselves because someone ran into them in the store and didn't say excuse me, I have also spoken with people who chose not to because a stranger told them hello. My point is, you can't look at someones surface and know their damage, know the depth of their pain, so you never know when the smallest, simplest, kind gesture from you could save a life.

Thank you for listening to me for such a long time.  Please share if you feel so moved, and please remember that may is national mental health awareness month

****For you holly, I love you****

"The COURAGE to CHANGE the things I can"

My name is Rebecca and I am addicted to food.  Not good food.  I don't sit around longing for celery and cottage cheese.  I enjoy healthy food, in fact I love it, but I can walk away from it - it's everything else that I am struggle with.  Before I continue with let me state something very clearly I am not making light of addiction - far from it.  I know what it is like to struggle with addiction, I was married to an alcoholic, and I have been clean sixteen years.  I understand the daily struggles, the ups and downs, the fights, the desires, the cravings, the withdrawls, the headaches, everything that goes with the chains of addictions and kicking them; however, I am not sure if I understood, until very recently, exactly how extreme an addiction to food can be.  I know what everyone is wondering: How is the weight loss going?  How is the progress?  Has there been a setback??  It's still going awesome guys - truly!!  Everyday I make huge strides and see improvements and I am so excited to share all of them with you, and we will get there throughout this blog, I promise - baby steps, as I am so fond of saying :)

For those of you that follow my blog you know that the past six weeks or so have just been a roller coaster for me health wise - severe asthma issues, i hurt my leg, migraines out of control, my weight stalled, my depression was at rock bottom - I felt like I was sinking, spiraling downward and I couldn't see the end.  I promised total honesty when I started this, so here is total honesty, I even began to think about hurting myself.  All I could see was how I was letting everybody that I cared about down and how much better off everyone would be if I wasn't around, it was that dark, and I was that irrational.  Then "it" happened.  Joe and I went to the store (he had stopped letting me out of his sight for longer than the length of a shower) and they were selling Russel Stover Smores for a dollar so I grabbed one on the way to check out.  It was just one, right??  What could it hurt, right??  I took one bite and I can't even describe the feeling that went through me other than to equate it to alcohol or narcotics.  That warmth you get the first time you try it, or when you come back to it after a long time apart.  The more I ate the warmer I got, and the better I felt.  I ate the entire thing, more than I had eaten in ten weeks, ignoring my protesting stomach, telling myself it was only one time, everyone deserves a treat occasionally, and I wouldn't do it again.  The only problem was, I couldn't stop thinking about it, I even dreamed about having another one - made even more ironic by the fact that I don't even LIKE sweets.  The next day I made up an excuse to go back to the store and I bought not just one but TWO more I ate one right away and ended up having the second before the night was over, again with the same effect, the same endorphin rush, all from food.  The next day, I found myself just sobbing over what I had done, I had managed to consume almost 500 calories in less than three hours, not a single calorie being nutritional, and there was no hunger involved.  I felt like a total failure, lower than I had at any point before this.  So, how did I react?  The way and emotional eater does.  I consumed more food.  It wasn't tons, I can't gorge myself, but it was enough, and every time with the same results.  I would feel depressed or stressed or worried or - fill in emotion here - I would eat something I shouldn't, the rush of endorphins would follow, they would fade and then the guilt would come back and sink me even lower - typical cycle of depression and addiction, and I couldn't find my way out of it.  Until, one day, there was a light there - it was faint but it was there.  I realized I had friends around me like Christi, Joee, Jahorah, Judy, Lori, West, Mellie, Karen, Cat, Mikey, even Joe, looking out for me everyday.  More than just looking out for me, cheering me on, listening to me if I needed it, supporting me when I couldn't support myself, and it wasn't just them.  Every single day I have people texting me or finding me at work or on facebook to see how I'm doing, how I'm feeling, how my progress is - people like you guys reading my blog or sending me an email.  Little by little it began to occur to me that these things don't just happen, it isn't for your personal edification, you aren't just bored, and it isn't like we all have a ton a free time - I have been blessed to find a group of people (a rather large group at that) that genuinely care how I am, how I am feeling, what I am doing, and if I need anything.  Yes, I am struggling,  yes I am STILL struggling.  I will continue to struggle every day, some days every minute, but at least I am continuing to struggle, and isn't that what matters?  As long as I continue to fight and I still have such an amazing support system I'm not failing, I'm just succeeding at a slower pace :) and I'm ok with that.....now on to other stuffage!!!!

YEP THATS ME!!!!!  Let's ignore the bags under the eyes, I didn't NOT sleep well last night.....may I point
out the TOTAL LACK OF EXTRA CHIN!!!!!!!  OMG!!!!!   IT'S FABULOUS!!!!!!   I don't even know what to say.   And, here is other news........so, last blog, if you recall, I was stalled weight wise.  Well, I was weighed again today and.....

are you ready??


because it's kind of huge (no pun intended)


ok for me it's the most exciting news of the year



ok last set up before the big real, the next set will have my latest weight in....





2          4          9


Yep.  Two hundred and forty nine pounds.  Do you know what that means??  First off that means that since March 26 I have lost 77 pounds which is AMAZING!!!  That also means that when I step on a scale they don't have to move the weight to the 250 mark anymore, they can stop at the 200.  They haven't been able to do that since high school.  I cried.  My pants are ten sizes smaller.  My shoes are even smaller (if someone can explain that to me I would appreciate any suggestions on that one lol).  I use normal wheel chairs and blood pressure cuffs.  I don't have to go directly to the fat chicks section of stores.  Also I purchased the first two piece swim suit I have owned since I rocked out in a smurf bikini in preschool.  I can look at myself sometimes and not feel disgusting.  Maybe that isn't what people want to hear, in fact I'm sure it isn't.  People want to hear how beautiful or sexy or hot I feel, but that goes back to total honesty, and I won't lie to you.  I don't feel those things, so I won't tell you I do; however, not disgusting is a big step for me.  Excited to get on a scale is a monumental step for me.  Taking pictures of myself and not immediately deleting them is equivalent to walking on the moon for me.  So, I am taking my baby steps and climbing my mountains - even if they are only mole hills. To steal a page from a famous support group:

God grant me the serenity 
to accept the things I cannot change; 
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.

It is getting late and I have bored you for quite long enough so I am going to stop writing for now.  I have the MRI on my hip this week so I will let you all know how that goes.  Until then good night, stay safe, and thank you for listening!!!!  <3<3<3

Ups and Downs

Hi everyone!!  Firstly let me say thank you to everyone for your patience over the past few weeks.  I know that I have been distant and I haven't written, and that several people have requested that I do, and I apologize if I have hurt anybodys feelings or made anybody feel left out or ignored.  June has been an extremely difficult month for me - both physically and emotionally - and in between trying to heal from everything and trying to process my emotions I have somewhat retreated into my shell to allow myself time to adjust and regain focus.  By now, I'm sure, you are all asking what exactly has been going on, so lets start with the physical part.  As most of you know, I finally went back to work in the beginning of May and I was able to return to the gym and begin working out and pushing myself again.  To be honest, it felt amazing!  There is nothing quite like popping my ear buds in, drowning myself in my music, and feeling my muscles burn as I push away the day - it's the most cathartic feeling in the world, and rather addictive as well.  While I'm at the gym, going as hard as I can for as long as I can, I feel like I am doing  something, like I am actually accomplishing something rather than just waiting for everything to happen.  I feel good about myself, about my life, about the changes that are going on with my body - and I know that I will reach my goal.  So, because of that, I had been making an effort to go every day and to push harder and further each time I went - then June 1 happened.  Joe and I had gone to the grocery store for your basic stuff for Saturday dinner - yes, Saturday dinner.  Saturday is "mommy day" because she doesn't have dialysis that day or on Sunday so she can stay later.  We have dinner, hang out, play games, talk, whatever - it's just nice bonding time for all of us and I look forward to it all week :)  Anyway (back on track sorry) Joe and I were at the store and I was talking on the phone and finishing getting the last couple of things we need and - wham - my feet were flying from under me and I was grasping at air trying to catch myself.  Somebody had spilled yogurt on the floor and hadn't bothered to tell anybody or to clean it up, and I - and my flip flops - was the one to find it.  The way I slipped I bent my knee backwards (I call it barbie dolling my leg because I used to bend my barbies legs that way when I was a kid) slammed my foot into the shopping cart and popped out my hip - and the way I tensed so I could catch myself threw out my back.  It was completely embarrassing and extremely painful.  I ended up going to the emergency room where they did xrays and a cat scan - Doc was worried I had broken my shin bone which is why she ordered the CAT scan.  Fortunately, no bones were broken....not so fortunately, I royally damaged my meniscus and acl and screwed up my hip.  I left the emergency room in a full knee immobilizer and on crutches - neither of which is exactly conducive to working out.  I am working with a specialist so that we can get my knee to heal completely; which, for now, means that we are doing physical therapy to try and strengthen it up because we can't do another surgery so soon after my last two.  Good part is that I am finally off the crutches - I use a cane if it is really hurting and I have a different knee brace that allows some movement that I wear under my jeans - bad part is it will be a bit before I am able to go 100% at the gym.  (I also ended up making a second ER trip as a result of that slip because my hip was so out of place and in so much pain I couldn't move it without getting sick)  Emergency room trip number three happened Tuesday June 11.  I was working overtime and sitting at my desk taking calls and I started to feel funny.  The room was starting to spin, I could hear my pulse in my ears, things were getting fuzzy, and breathing was becoming difficult.  I wasn't overly worried about it at first but it kept getting worse.  I finally wrote to my MR and told her that I was having a hard time catching my breath.  She went and got our Area Manager and my best friend came from the other side of the building.  By the time they got to my desk I was starting to turn blue and I felt like something was sitting on my chest.  I was still fighting going to the hospital but my boss was adamant about calling 911.  We pulled into the ER and I had no breath sounds and a pulse ox that was considered critical.  Due to my history, the doctor initially thought it was a PE, and - no matter what was wrong - she was worried because I was totally unable to draw a breath.  We did another CAT scan and several blood tests and I was lucky because it wasn't a PE....what it was was a severe asthma attack.  It was so severe that my bronchial tubes had totally closed which is why you couldn't even hear a wheeze - my lungs weren't getting any air so they were totally silent.  Doc even said the "admit" word but after some steroids and nebulizers we were able to get me opened up enough and breathing well enough that I was allowed to go home with more steroids and inhalers - under strict orders to see my doctor and an asthma specialist immediately.  I am following those orders, by the way, and we are getting my breathing under control - however, this is ANOTHER set back when it comes to working out.   With all of that, I am physically recovering, it is just taking time.....I do think that the emotional toll of this month will take longer to heal....

I'm am frustrated, I am frustrated with myself and with this process and with my progress.  I am frustrated with the past month and everything that has happened.  The day after the asthma attack I had several doctors appointments, including my stomach doctor and my weigh in.  I always look forward to going to see my bariatric surgeon - he's awesome and kind and gives me the right encouragement - and this visit was no different....then I got there and got on the scale.  Now, I understand that I have lost over 70 pounds since I had my surgery March 26.  I understand that that is over 20 pounds a month which is amazing.  I understand that I was extremely sick after my surgery which caused me to lose too much weight too quickly.  I understand that my goal was to have lost 50 pounds by this point and I have far exceeded that.  The logical part of me gets all of this totally, but with everything that has happened this month that is not the side of my brain that is winning lately.....So, I get there and I get on the scale, and....nothing.  At all.  In three weeks I hadn't lost a single pound.  The nurse looked at me and I just started crying, just blubbering like a fool.  The poor nurse looks at me like I have three heads and all of them are leaking.  She gets me to the room and I'm pretty sure that she ran to get my doc and told him that I had lost my mind because he was in the room in minutes.  I couldn't explain to him why I was so upset, I couldn't put it into words.  I'm not even sure if I knew fully why I was so upset - all I knew was I was devastated and I couldn't make myself stop crying.  Doc took one look at me, hugged me, and told me I was being silly and should be proud of myself.  He reminded me that I had just been weighed with a knee brace on which adds weight number one.  He then reminded me that I had been on steroids and muscle relaxers and had been pumped full of steroids the night before which causes you to retain water.  He finally pointed out that I was well ahead of schedule on my weight loss, that I am doing amazingly, and that he is more than thrilled with my progress.  I heard him, I head what he was saying, I understood what he was saying, but it didn't help.  I slapped on a smile and my happy face (it's one of my specialties) and let him think I was perfect while the little girl in my head was curled up in a ball silently rocking back and forth and crying.  Over the next week I couldn't seem to get out of my funk, AND I couldn't seem to shake the worst case of munchies I had had since the surgery - and that only made everything worse.  I know I am an emotional eater, I always have been.  No matter what was going on in my life, no matter how badly I was hurting, food was the one constant that never abandoned me - and it is still where I habitually turn when I am upset.  I have been battling that habit since the surgery, and I have been winning - instead of turning to food I exercise, play a game, read a book, or write here - and now I felt like I had lost all control.  I still wasn't stuffing my face with everything I could find (the worse for me the better), but the pull to munch on everything, to constantly be chewing even when I wasn't hungry was so strong, I felt myself spiraling back to the person I was and I was powerless to stop it.  I had an appointment with my regular doc one week after my bariatric doc to begin the follow up from my asthma attack, and the closer it got the more I panicked.  My regular doc is amazing, I trust him with my life, with the most precious people in my life, and I am so lucky I have him.  More than him is his nurse.  His nurse is one of my heroes - without exaggeration.  She has been my champion over and over since I started going there.  She takes pictures of me and saves them so she can show me my progress when I am struggling.  She has fought with insurance companies, hospitals, my employer, even doctors on my behalf to make sure that I am getting taken care of.  When I started the process for my surgery, she was the one that researched surgeons for me, she found my dietitians, she ordered all of the tests I would need, she helped me keep my food journals correctly for the insurance, she found every hoop there would be even before it was there and she made sure we could jump through it.  She is the woman that I call when I am struggling or don't feel well or even when I have a stupid question, and she is ALWAYS there - I do not have enough words to describe how much I love this woman or how much she means to me - as does her opinion.  As I'm driving to my appointment I could feel the panic attack starting.  I was going to have to walk in there, with these people that fought so hard for me, get on a scale, and show them that I was still fat - not only was I still fat, but I hadn't lost any weight in a month.  I was terrified, literally gripped with fear, at the thought of disappointing them.  By the time I walked in the door I had worked myself into a frenzy - all over the scenarios that I was playing up in my head.  Deb called me back and, before the scale, she hugged me and told me how amazing I am looking - I'm telling you, that woman is an angel and can read me like a book.  She had me get on the scale and - guess what - I had lost 4 pounds since seeing the surgeon the week before!!  I could feel some of the panic lifting, especially as she high fived me and told me how proud she was.  We got in the room and she did the nurse thing - stats, temp, etc - then she pulled up pictures of me from just before the surgery.  She made me look at them and made me admit how much better I look now.  I have a defined neck again and you can see my collar bones.  My breasts no longer look like a shelf attached to my chest, rather I am developing a shape.  When I smile you can still see my eyes, whereas before my cheeks were so chubby they would block my eyes.  She made me look at and acknowledge the differences.  Then, before getting doc, she told me to stop beating myself up.  She reminded me that exercising has been very difficult because of my injuries and asthma but I have still been trying, and that everybody hits bumps when they are losing weight - no matter what process they are taking - I am no different.  She also pointed out that the thinner I get the slower I will lose weight, BECAUSE I HAVE LESS TO LOSE (her emphasis lol).  She said all of the things I needed to hear and she did make me feel better, but I couldn't stop the nagging feeling over the munchies - then doc came in.  He and I had our typical small talk. he checked my lungs, set me up with a specialist, and gave me another script, then he brought up the steroid I had been taking because of the asthma.  He asked me if I had been hungry lately, even though I shouldn't be.  I told him yes and that it was really bothering me because I couldn't figure out what was going on.  That was when he informed me that any time I get any prescriptions I need to call either him or my surgeon because my body is different now, so the side effects that are no big deal to most people are detrimental for me...one of the biggest issues with the steroid I was taking (in large quantities I may add) is increased hunger and water retention.  The constant munchies I had been experiencing weren't my fault, they were a result of the meds, and the fact that I was fighting them was awesome.  Even more impressive to him was the fact that I was noticing there was an issue with food and with the munchies.  Before the surgery, before I became so committed, I would have just eaten - hungry or not, healthy or not, it wouldn't have mattered - I would have stuffed my face without even thinking.  Now, however, I was realizing that I was craving food even though I wasn't hungry, AND when I chose to eat something I was putting good things into my body.  I was drinking water to make sure I was hungry, not thirsty.  I was eating veggies and granola, not chocolate.  I was making all of the correct decisions, even with my system so off because of the meds.  I needed to hear all of that because I had been brutalizing myself for a week, trying to figure out what was wrong with me and why I was such a failure.  Talking to doc and his nurse helped me, and it answered questions I had been struggling with all week.  That said, I am still having a difficult emotional time after my last weigh in.  Yes, the logical part of me accepts everything I have been told and knows it is accurate.  I get that.  I just can't shake this feeling that I am letting everybody down.  So many people, so many of you, have been pulling for me.  Over the past year I have discovered I have the most amazing support system on the planet.  I have this group of people that love me, and support me, and cheer for me, and are excited for me and my victories, and I don't want to disappoint them.  I step on the scale and I can see that the number is so much smaller than it was just a few short months ago, but I look in the mirror and  all I see is the same out of control fat chick staring back at me.  My clothes are literally falling off, to the point that I have to hold my pants up (I even accidentally put on Mykayla's panties the other day) but when I see myself I don't see any changes at all, and I can't figure out how anybody else does.  Again, that logic side of me knows that it is not the reflection in the mirror that I am struggling with - it is my perception of that reflection - and, again, my logic side isn't winning right now.  I think I am just so afraid that I will no lose enough fast enough, that I will write a blog without enough of a difference, that I won't lose inches quickly enough, that everybody will just give up on me.  I worry that I will let everyone down and they will feel like they invested their time and effort into the wrong person.  That they tried so hard to support me and I just turned around and went back to my same old ways again.  I want so badly to see what everybody else tells me they see.  I want to look in the mirror and see the woman that does look thinner and happier and healthier.  I want to put my clothes on and feel good about how they fit and how they look.  I want to see a camera pointed in my direction and not feel my stomach drop at the thought of a picture being taken looking like this.  I want to be able to take my girls to school or the pool or out with friends and not worry that I am an embarrassment to them, or that their friends are going to tease them for their fat mommy.  I want all of these things so badly and there are times I can see them there, they are almost in my grasp, I just can't quite reach them yet.  I really am trying.  I am trying to heal the broken parts of me that change the reflection in the mirror.  I am working on getting back to the gym and pushing because I feel better about myself and about life when I have worked out.  I am reshaping my relationship with food and what I do when I am upset or when I have the munchies.  I am working on all of this and some days I feel like I have made huge strides and that there is a light at the end of the tunnel, and other times I feel like I am taking more steps backwards than forwards.  What I must try to understand and accept is that it took me almost 34 years to get this way - both physically and mentally.  Parts got broken little by little, my pieces became sharper as they were worn and rebroken over time, my body got bigger slowly as it tried to hide my pieces from the world, all of these things happened over years not days, or weeks, or even months, and they are not going to change and heal instantly.  This journey will take time, it will not happen overnight, I will probably be struggling with some of this for the rest of my life, and that is ok as long as I am willing to keep fighting.  Slumps like this will happen, I will take steps back, but it is the ones that I take forward that will define who I am on this journey.  So, I ask all of you for continued prayers and patience as I continue to navigate this bumpy path I have chosen.  I have made it this far because of your strength and love and I am so blessed that each of you is supporting me.  I promise to try and never disappoint you and to always push towards the finish line...
Until next time, thank you for reading, good night, stay safe, and I love you!!!