my milieu

Why do I hurt myself whenever something upsets me?

I don’t know how else to deal with being hurt by someone else, especially someone I care about. I hurt myself in some way to distract, relieve or take away the emotional hurt. Physical pain, destruction, placing myself purposely in harm’s way, all of these things hurt less than when someone I love hurts me. It’s simple, really.

Is it selfish to protect myself? Is it selfish that I deal with things this way because I don’t know how else to deal with them? Yes, I realize that it hurts other people but, really, if you cared that much about me getting hurt you wouldn’t have done something that you know for a fact was going to hurt me. If I found out is the qualifier, of course, but I always find out. If I suspect something is up, I don’t hesitate to roto-rooter everything to find something. If there’s no suspicion at all, fortune (or incessant curiosity) always has a way of slapping me in the face with exactly what I never wanted to know.

It’s not a two-wrongs situation. It’s a wrong and a coping strategy. Person commits selfish act, other person finds out, gets hurt, copes with that hurt with self-harm. I don’t purge, drink alcohol, smoke cigarettes, or physically harm myself for the sake of the act. I do those things because I know they hurt me. In a situation like that, for example, I don’t get drink to get drunk and forget about everything: I get drunk because I know that I’m poisoning myself, even if the chances of me actually causing permanent damage in that one instance are low. Lashing out and hurting the other person would only serve to exacerbate the hurt that I’m feeling because now I would be adding the guilt of hurting someone else to the equation. I don’t gain anything from hurting someone I care about.

Normally, I don’t want to talk about it. I never want to stop the cycle once I’ve already started. If the person that hurt me tries to stop me from hurting myself in response, they are only in my way and I think, what right do they have to tell me what I can’t or shouldn’t do to deal with what THEY did to ME? Let it run its course, for however many minutes, hours, days it may last. Because if I don’t react and cope this way, I will shut down and stop feeling anything altogether. It’s happened several times before, and it’s always lasted a very, very long time. And it’s much worse, in my eyes, than anything I could do to myself.

If this is selfishness, then generousness is suicide.

Keep free… of negative thoughts,
Everything’ll be fine, we all assume,
that it would go back to the way things were,
that it would go back to normal soon.
Saw the moon in a way that I’d never seen it before
when I looked up that night into the sky, wondering why,
looking for answers, guess I ain’t asked right.
I’m guessing most of y’all out there know exactly what that’s like.

Excuse the onomatopoeia. It’s the closest I can get to describing the noise that comes from me when I reflux sometimes. Not quite a hiccup…. so more like a heeyruup. Or “dying giraffe” as a classmate so kindly termed it today which brought on this rant.

This rather embarrassing condition has notably frustrated me on several occasions. Most of the time I just deal with it or even laugh about it. It was a sort of hobby of mine once upon a time to drink milkshakes or eat ice cream or anything with a heavy amount of cream and then spit it up like a baby in front of people who appeared to take life too seriously.

Now that I’m older I don’t find it so cute anymore. Not that I ever did, really; I just tried to have a sense of humor about it to cope with the fact that it originates from something quite unpleasant.

So when my body randomly refluxes, I can’t usually anticipate it. So when I’m doing something like, oh, breathing when it happens, an almost unearthly noise is produced. And people usually double-take and give me a weird look, laugh, make fun of it, etc. And what am I supposed to tell them?

Usually if they ask or look at me uber-strange, I explain that I have a reflux disorder. “Oh. Like, acid reflux?” is usually the follow-up question and then I politely attempt to explain how it’s different.

I’m not going to just say, “Oh, I made myself throw up so many times for so many years that I actually inflicted a permanent, life-long gastrointestinal disorder in which my body decides to internally heave as though I were puking, bringing forth anything from what I just ate or drank to stomach acid to air (which is what makes the noise).”

It only really gets to me when someone makes a comment like that at a particularly vulnerable moment in time. Or when I can’t keep even fucking water down for more than a second.

I didn’t fully research it when I was 15 and it began happening to me. At first it started with only triggering foods, foods that I threw up quite often. It wasn’t until I stopped purging for a long time that I realized this thing was stuck with me, and most likely for good unless I underwent expensive, invasive intestinal surgery to correct it. It puts me at a slightly greater risk for throat cancer (life causes cancer anyway) but other than that it’s nothing more than an embarrasing, sometimes painful nuisance.

“Dying giraffe.” Haha. What an ass.

I’m still on the fence in regards to my career path.

Some days I want to take the easy way out. Graduate with a Bachelor’s next year, go into teaching. Not great money but better than now and plus there’s that whole getting 2 months off with pay, all the holidays and never having to go to work on weekends. I wouldn’t be terribly unsatisfied with that career. It has its perks, even though teachers get shafted in many, many ways they shouldn’t. Plus being done with school is being done, and that’s really satisfying.

Most of the time, though, I have my sights set on the longer, windier path. Yeah, it’s six more years of school and it wouldn’t be easy at all. All the money I’ll have to come up with, the difficulty of the doctoral program and all the time I’ll be investing has me extremely apprehensive. But I do want to do it. I wouldn’t die if I didn’t do it, but I may end up regretting not going for it in the end. I want to do research. I want to find the answers for people with eating disorders and their families and friends that I didn’t have and that certainly no one has right now. (If they’ll even fund my research… trying to get funding for eating disorders research = getting shafted, 9 times out of 10.) This choice represents tons of options that I wouldn’t have if I just went straight into teaching. Much better salary, more autonomy but more elbow grease. A lot more.

And then there’s the possibility of me getting a staff job for ITS when I graduate and not even using my degree. (The fact that that kind of job requires just a degree, no matter what it is, is a bit weird. Just in this place alone there’s people who majored in Music, French, English, etc. who are programming and doing tech support.) If that gets offered, that throws another wrench into the mix. It would be more in between the two. Better salary, benefits than teaching with even less work but also less security. I’m not 100% sure if this one is even on the horizon for me or not.

Sigh. Something about being a senior in college stresses me out to the point where every time I go to class all I want to do is play with blocks and color with crayons.

First visit with my therapist went well. As always, I was incredibly anxious and apprehensive beforehand. When she first brought up antidepressants I was again on the defense, very resistant and explained to her my qualms with “medicated life”. But she managed to sell me on it not only because of the positive points and her experiences that she described to me but also due to the fact that I am downright desperate for a change. I guess my teenage rebelliousness has finally subsided enough for me to fully consider the option.

So starting next week I’ll most likely be on some kind of antidepressant medication. And it will most likely be a whole month before I even begin to see a change (unless I’m put on something like Lexapro, which generally starts working faster).

I’m actually looking forward to working through my issues with her and for once I don’t have any negative thoughts about being in therapy. I’m relieved that she does not agree with the psychiatrist I saw, especially since BPD is a pretty damn serious diagnosis.

It’s safe to say that for the past 10 years, I have never been in remission from depression. In fact, I can’t even recall how I felt or how I could feel before it began. There were times where I was barely depressed, but for the last decade of my life I have always been depressed to some degree. But it’s also hard for me to say whether the eating disorder or the depression came first. Maybe they just started at the same time.

But even after such a positive experience today, I’m still contemplating getting ephedrine online (and start taking it again, of course), thinking about how much I’m going to exercise today and hating myself for the meal I had earlier and all the calories I had today and will have later. I think that even if the depression manages to finally go away or at least get better that it will still be a long, long time before my eating disorder, self-confidence and body image issues can be resolved.

There are some things that I admire about those behind the fat acceptance movement. The fact that they can sit there and proclaim, “I’m fat. I’m wonderful. Deal with it,” demonstrates a confidence I could never hope to have at this point in my life. I admire their ability to deal with daily insults and bullshit from ignorant and bigoted people and be able to brush it off, self-esteem intact. I would love to have a positive body image, and I admire anyone that has one. I have no idea what it is like to accept myself the way I am or even go as far as to love myself for the way I am. My body has always felt like an alien entity and not an extension of myself. I’ve never known what it feels like to be comfortable in my body and confident in myself.

So loving yourself for the way you are is beautiful and wonderful and ideal and whatnot. Being able to rise above discrimination and derogatory remarks from assholes is awesome.

Being fat is not a disease in and of itself. Yes, obesity (and the hilarity that is the “obesity epidemic”) is over-hyped worse than the supposed dangers of secondhand smoke. No, I don’t think being fat dooms anyone to any medical condition, debilitating or not. Do I think it plays a role in the genetically predisposed? Fuck yeah, I do. But not because of the excess body fat itself but rather the cause of it in the majority of fat people. There are, of course, medical conditions, diseases, certain medications and strong genetic tendencies that can cause a person have more body fat and difficulties maintaining weight even if they exercise and eat healthy foods.

I realize that it is possible to be healthy and fit even while your doctor tacks on the “obese” or “overweight” label. But I feel like there is a flaw with fat acceptance. A huge one (no pun intended?).

I would not dismiss the very likely possibility that many of the people who fall in line with fat acceptance are not as healthy as they assert. As I said before, there are diseases and genetic tendencies that can cause a person to be fat. But I really don’t believe those people make up the majority or totality, and I don’t believe that all of those that assert that they are “fat and healthy” really eat right and exercise as well as they claim to, especially if they’re not on medications that cause weight gain or have diseases like hypothyroidism or polycystic ovarian syndrome. The fact of the matter is that lack of activity and poor eating habits most often result in a person being fat unless they have a preexisting condition, genetic predisposition (which is a very, very small % of people) or have to take medication that screws up their body’s metabolism. And lack of activity and poor eating habits are never healthy, whether a person is fat or not.

Many feel the need to defend themselves against current trends in research and perspectives in medical science, but I feel as though just as many are doing so without true assessment and consideration of their own health. Misinformation on obesity is dangerous and often insulting, but it is incredibly stupid to simply tune out all the real information that is out there.

I don’t think much has happened over a period of 20 years to warrant such a surge in the number of fat people out there other than a lifestyle change in the average person. More people have sedentary jobs and lifestyles and more people eat out, eat processed food and eat poorly in general. The genetic makeup of people in the 1980’s is not so drastically different from people now. And there has not been that much of a change in the average person’s prosperity either to cause such a huge average weight gain. Western society didn’t go from the average person being near starving to an overabundance of food in the last 20 years, or even the last 50. The only thing that has changed are the lifestyles of most people.

I don’t assume every fat person has an unhealthy lifestyle but that doesn’t change the fact that most of them do. Shit, most people do period, fat or thin or average. It sucks that most people (myself included) cannot eat whatever they want and do little or no physical activity without becoming fat, but that’s life. Just because you’re getting the brunt of the unhealthy lifestyle assault doesn’t mean that the rules change for you.

And not just a little weight. The dude lost 86 pounds.

Haha. Wow. How’s that for turning shit on its head?

He said the idea was born out of his wife’s skepticism at his ability to lose weight.

“I told her I could lose weight eating anywhere,” he said. “I told her I could do it eating at McDonald’s.”

Determined to prove his point, Mr. Coleson started eating two meals a day at the Golden Arches (he doesn’t eat breakfast) and saved his receipts in a journal.

But apparently the guy has no interest in being the Mcdonald’s version of Subway’s Jared. It’s a shame; I think he could inspire the whole world to eat more double cheeseburgers. Or better yet, eat so much portioned fast food your body actually becomes malnourished.

Hilarious.

Full article.

I’m depressed again. Yaaaaaaaaay.

Some days I feel as though I am the only person on Earth who feels like porn is pointless. At best, it’s hilarious. Most of the time, it’s just disgusting. And in the words of my best friend, “It’s like watching people ride rollercoasters. What’s the point?”

I don’t understand it. Why people like it, why it even exists (especially the really, really nasty stuff like incest and all those exotic fetishes). I really don’t get it. It has never appealed to me and what I’ve seen of it has only served to gross me out. And it’s either a gross-me-out worthy of a laugh or the kind that makes me want to swear off sex altogether. And I guess I either don’t have the ability to understand it or I don’t understand simply because no one has ever been able to sensibly and adequately explain why something like porn could cause a person to override their respect for another person’s feelings.

I don’t feel like anyone should be ashamed to look at it or like it or whatever. As long as the person is honest with their partner, who cares? I’m impressed by someone who admits it on the spot rather than someone who feeds me lie after lie whenever the subject comes into conversation to try to gain brownie points with me. And yeah, when the person goes all self-deprecating admitting the truth can be difficult. But in the end, a lie hurts way, way more than the truth.

I think this is just me over-idealizing people, which I rarely do anymore but when it comes to this I just cannot wrap my head around it. But I guess I’m the weird one.

So I’ll just do what I’ve always done and be quietly vindictive, angry and sad until something explodes.

Today I visited a psychiatrist for the first time ever. And I fought going every. step. of the way.

But now that the little initial visit is over, I am glad and proud of myself for actually going through with it. Getting help isn’t going to change my life (not that my life is bad) and it’s not going to fix me (though one could argue, weakly, that I am not broken), but it will help me with my problems and dealing with my past which is, really, all I need and want from this anyway.

The psychiatrist brought up the possibility that my mother WAS emotionally abusive and I was instantly offended and my first instinct was to defend her. But I realized that she was right. And I realized that part of my struggle with actually going to treatment in the first place was that I didn’t want that insight; I didn’t want to be faced with certain facts about my life that I frequently ignore and deny.

So after talking through everything and going through the standard DSM questions, I was christened (haha) ED-NOS (with a lot of symptoms of BPD, but I’m not even going to worry about that–yet). I’m actually… okay with a formal diagnosis (obviously, otherwise I wouldn’t be writing about it). I always hated the thought of being diagnosed with anything (and any other form of social or bureaucratic labeling), but really, I don’t mind it so much. I always identified myself more with bulimia, but yeah, diagnostically I’m not because I don’t binge eat. I got recommended to be put on an antidepressant, but I’m taking the long road and I’m just going to slug it out in therapy sans rx. I’m glad the psychiatrist wasn’t pushy about meds and respected the fact that I don’t want them. Even if I were to take medication, it could only help my mood and wouldn’t solve the plethora of problems I have. What I really need is to learn to cope with everything I’ve been through and everything I will go through in the future.

If I can find a good therapist and my insurance will pay for it, anyway.

My personal experience with vegans has been that they are spoiled, arrogant, urban or suburban brats who happily tote their holier-than-thou attitude along with their fucking flax seeds. They over-idealize the world and people in general and most of them are, naturally, afraid to travel (or have never traveled) too far from Whole Foods. I grew up traveling frequently across the United States (31 out of 50 states ) and spent a few years out of the country. I know just how difficult it is to be a vegetarian outside of more urban environments.

As health conscious as most vegans are (or at least pretend to be), you’d think they would know that a vegan diet for an infant or a child is an incredibly dangerous slippery slope. Personally, I think it’s downright stupid to force your lifestyle choices on a child, especially if they can obviously and easily do permanent damage to the child’s growth and development. Children cannot develop whilst taking the punishment of a vegan diet. We are omnivores. It’s not some conspiracy by the meat and dairy industries, it’s a fucking fact of our biology. Our bodies are designed to eat animal protein. That doesn’t mean the kid needs a cheeseburger every night, but a little dairy and eggs once in a while won’t prevent the world’s chickens and cows from being liberated.

Oh wait. They’ll never be liberated because animals are incapable of conceptual thought and do not even understand what it means to be “free” versus being “oppressed”.

I could go on for days about how ridiculous veganism (and more especially, vegans in general) are, but this guy does a great job of summing up the issue at hand:

Professor Tom Sanders, head of nutrition and dietetics at King’s College London, warned that while most vegan parents give their children vitamin and mineral supplements, there was a core of hardliners putting their children’s health at risk.

He said: “Some of them think we’re still monkeys that can live on fruit and nuts.”

Monkeys indeed.

Full article here

I am just way too negative and way too intense.

And I’m stubborn and I shout and I’ll cut you out
And I’ll make you feel like I never wanted to make you feel.