Day Three- Release anger

You. Once a hero, my constant source of inspiration, someone i looked up at and aspired to. You, with your winning smile and bursting sense of confidence, you, who always knew what was right, who was always right and contageous in his self-righteousness. You, the man-god, worshipped by the whole family. You, the one who was once a world to me, the one i loved more than anything in the world- where are you now?

No longer a hero, no longer the god-figure, merely another lost soul, cast down from the pedestal in my eyes, sunken to abjection- tangled in his own mistakes and endless lies. You hurt me once. Then again. And again, and again, over and over. It killed me. More than once. Yet i would resurrect myself and all the splinters of shattered faith, trying to glue them together, trying to trust you once again, and still loving you, like nothing or no one in the world. Forgiving and forgetting all the hurt and disappointment, and constantly yearning for your love in return, your attention, your affection, your support.

I wish you were there when i needed you most.
I wish you were there for me to lean back on, when there was no one to catch me when i fell. i wish i did not feel so alone every time you left me with a broken heart and wounded pride, killing not only that love, but all the respect that one could have for another human being, a family, once a hero, now a nobody.

You were a world to me once.

And now...

Now i'm angry. No longer hurting, no longer waiting, no longer in need of your love, your affection or support.

I am full of anger that's been building up during all these years, and never got a chance to be expressed. I am venting it now. Once and for all...

I am so angry at you for hurting me so badly, not just once, but many times. I am so angry at myself for letting you do that to me, and never doing anything in return to prevent it from happening again. i am so angry at you for hurting not only me, but my brother, and my mother, and my grandparents. I can't forgive you for what you did to them, your own parents, leaving them almost placeless at such an old age. For hurting them even worse than you hurt me. I am so angry at you for refusing them that one thing that would make them happy- your attention. i am so angry at you for leaving them in disgrace for your own actions. i get flaming mad at you every time i see my grandfather tearful and ashamed of the dirt that you left behing after you were gone, and left him alone to deal... I am angry at you for ignoring my mother's pleas to do something to help my brother when he was growing up and was in such need of a male figure. I am so mad at you for constantly critisizing my mother about her way of brigning us up, and yet not even lifting your finger to do anything to help her...

I am angy at you for your selfishness. For your constant lies. For your arrogance and self-righteousness i once found so appealing. I am mad at you for your high flown words and the promises you constantly broke. I was so angry to hear you say how proud you were of me and my accomplishments, when you didnt have even a single contribution in helping me in the process and had no clue how hard it was for me to get there.

i am mad at you for failing to establish even one normal relationship with anyone around you who once used to love and respect you.

i remember how painful it was to get over the loss of all the respect that i had for you. I remember spending an entire month in bed, not wanting to do anything and grieving, like you'd grieve a death of a loved one. Perhaps you really died for me then- but this anger is still alive and still tearing me apart. There was a time when i was so full of spite that i could hardly breathe. That was what got me out of bed, finally, the spite, the burning desire to get better, to get on my feet and make something of myself, but this time not for your approval and recognition, but out of sheer spite, so that i could throw it to your face "There, i did it. Alone. Without you..."

And now, from where i am at this point, i no longer need this spite or anger. Just like i no longer need you and your encouragement, reassurance, support or love. I've long learned to live without those things, and get along without anyone's support. I no longer need your approval. Or recognition. I am happy where i am. i am happy that i got to this point on my own, without you being there to even watch. i am happy without you- and by letting you go,i am letting go of this anger that's been burdening me all this time.

Blame yourself all you want. For not being better prepared, for not being able to better respond to stressful situations, for not being able to foresee and prevent them. Blame yourself for looking for outside sources for help, support and affection. For having high expectations of other people and situations, for having expectations in the first place. But refusing to acknowledge that your expectations of yourself are too high for any human to be able to meet.

" i should have been better, smarter, stronger, smarter, and what not else"

perhaps i should have. perhaps i could have, but no matter how hard i tried, it would never ever be good enough.

what difference would it make? Would life be any different? Perhaps i would not grow up feeling so alone, and in need of affection. Perhaps i would not be so full of spite and self-loathing. Perhaps i would not have spent so much time and energy in agonizing over "if i were better, stronger, prettier" and would actually spend that energy on something creative- like my own life. if only i wouldn't interpret the actions and behaviors of other people based on my own self-image. And not think less of myself because of that.

It's overwhelming to realize how long i have been stuck in this mental loop of self-defeating thoughts. Even more disturbing to try and break out of what has become a deeply engraved habit. A habit just as strong and destructive as drug or alcohol addiction. A habit that not only claimed all of my self-confidence and sense of self worth, but almost cost me my health and my life.

Some habits are hard to break- no matter how mature you are, and how much you think you’re over the past shit- still, it’s easier to go back to the old ways and respond to every uncomfortable, disheartening and frustrating situation with the one way you've gotten so familiar with: place the blame upon yourself-even when there's none of your fault involved. It's easier that way, anyway. You avoid facing the issue itself, that way you get to avoid what's really bothering you- especially if there are other people involved and if it's them who really are bothering you. That way you eliminate the people involved to the very minimum, they never get to know your real feelings and you can successfully pretend that the issue does not exist in the first place.

You can tell yourself that you can deal with it on your own, despite the fact that your own coping mechanisms are feeble, inadequate and plain unhealthy. That way all you have to face is your own frustrations and the only way you know how to deal with them is stuffing and bottling them up. Even if you know fairly well that there's only so much shit that you can take, and eventually all that bottled up stress is going to turn into bile and resentment and end up as pain in your abdomen.

[if i were better, smarter, stronger, prettier... maybe he would finally love me, and find a way of showing that love to me. perhaps he would actually care about what was going on with me, and the whole family. Perhaps he would stop by more often to check how we were doing. Perhaps he would not miss my birthday when i was so expecting him. Perhaps i would finally become good enough and worthy of his attention. Perhaps he would finally notice how much i really needed his support and how much i loved him. If only i was good enough, strong enough, smart enough, pretty enough...]

Day Two- Let the tears out

Cry all the tears that you didn't cry back then, twelve years ago. Let them out, like you'd let out caged birds... you know they're still there, just like you know you never properly grieved the loss. At times it still feels that he's there, somewhere, and one of these days he'll come to knock on the door-as if he never left, as if he were coming home from work... But then you have to remind yourself that he's gone- and it feels like it's happening all over again- and once again, instead of letting your tears out, you bottle them up, keep them locked up...

At times you wonder how different things would be if he still were alive...

There really is no way of reconciling with the fact. Blind acceptance only numbs the pain. Time is merely a distraction. You have to let it out. Cry it all out until there's nothing left. They call it grieving. And it's through tears that you'll find relief.

Remember...

Cold... and it rains and rains and rains.

Time seems to have come to halt in days and days of uncertainty.
You're left alone, on your own at your grandmother's house.
Everybody gone. No one to tell you a thing. Days and days of awaiting. You still dont know what's going on. Until you insist that they take you there. They agree, reluctantly.

Vaguely you remember narrow corridos and people in white. Quick steps and whispers and you are ushered into a room where he lays on a narrow bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling. You walk up closer and take his hand that is cold and lays motionless in yours. You look into the sunken eyes. They stare back at you and the look he gives you is deep, and full os sadness. Those eyes that seem to be talking to you. You smile and press his hand and for a second feel the grasp of the cold fingers.
You want to speak to him, say something, but they won't let you speak. They won't
let you stay long and soon they take you away. And again left alone with the kid and it rains and rains and rains. You sit by the window and wait. For a word. For a call, for someone to knock at the door bringing you some news.

Suddenly the rains stop and it clears out into a bright morning. The sun is out warming the wet ground. That day you step out into the sun and look at the sky with hope. Something has to happen today. Something good. You look forward with anticipation but all you see is pressed lips and silent glances avoiding you. Something's not right. They're trying to hide something from you. They talk in whispers and turn away from you. Suddenly your heart shrinks in fear, in a dark premonition. You're restless. You want to ask. You want an answer. You have to know. But you[re trapped indoors. From room to room in and out you go with a sickening pain in your stomach, and then you pick up the phone and dial the number you know so well. Long calls and a strange voice on the other side. In the background you hear your mother crying. A shiver down your spine and you hang up without saying a word.
You don't need to be told anymore. Now you know.

You rush out into the street and break into running as if trying to escape from what you already know. You run and run until your heart is in your throat and you can no longer breathe. Tears burn your eyes, you choke with sobs. You fall on the grass and start shaking violently.Unable to see. Unable to understand.
But you know what has happened.

They come to tell you. They find it hard to speak.
"I already know." They nod.
"Why!" They look away.
"You need to be strong," is what they tell you. "You must not cry. It will upset your mother."

Silence. And you force yourself to swallow your tears. She must not see. That will upset her...

People come and go. They approach you to press your hand but you don't look up. They give you hugs and pat your shoulder, they speak to you, but what they say doesn't make sense. Suddenly you are frozen. You are drawn into yourself behind a shield and look around with dry tired eyes. Who are those people? Why are they here? Why won't they leave? What difference will their being here make anyway?

You refuse pointblank to be present at the funeral. They let you, but never leave you unattended for even a minute. "The children must be taken care of." As if you care. All you want is to find a place where you can hide, curl into a ball and cry. But you
mustn't.

A week later you return home where nothing seems to have changed. His books, his tools, the desk. Seems that the doorbell will ring any moment and he will come in. If not today then tomorrow. If not tomorrow then one day, maybe next week, maybe a week after that...

Now you sleep in your mother's bed. She holds you very very tight at night and cries quietly when she thinks you're asleep. Sometimes you're awakened by her sobs and you lay in the dark pressing her hand. But you don't cry.

You still don't understand, but you dare not speak about it.
Soon you no longer even try to understand. But you don't ever cry.

Day One-Let yourself be

Wake up. Breathe. Look up at the sky.
Let the day begin at its own pace.
Let it slowly unfold with every breath you take.
Breathe. Deeply. Listen. Watch. Feel.
Let yourself be...

At times i ask myself why something like this had to happen to me- not so that I will have a reason to feel sorry for myself, and not so that I will have someone or something to blame, but in an attempt to understand the roots and origins of this complex and convoluted decease. But then I wonder whether by being able to track the reasons and knowing the exact causes will make any difference, or make it easier to recover.

Knowing the causes still won’t change the fact that I was affected by this disorder for over eight years-eight years that could have been spent on something more productive, eight years that could have been happier, healthier and better in so many ways… But then, I fail to picture what life would have been like back then without being sick. Would I be happier? Would I be in a healthier place, both physically, mentally or emotionally? Would i have made better decisions back then? Would it have prevented me from making all those mistakes, some of which proved to be disastrous, if not fatal? It's astounding and painful to realize how much this desease was affecting not only my health but my ability to think clearly and rationally. But then, once again i return to the same train of thought as to what it really is that I’m trying to recover from- a mental and functional disorder or my inability to cope and deal with issues that are inevitable, and in a way unpreventable, especially when you’re young. The most scary thought of it all is to think that perhaps there was some kind of reason for all this to happen- so that I could learn to really and truly appreciate life as it comes, in its most basic form, in its utter simplicity. And that even though i had to pay such a high price for it, what I acquired in return prooves to be priceless.

Sometimes i wonder whether I will ever be completely healed and whether full recovery is possible, but then I start questioning what recovery really is and what it is that I'm trying to heal from. Is it merely a functional disorder? Is it mental? Emotional? Where did it come from in the first place? Surely it was not some kind of a virus floating around in the air that I was unable to resist and fight. I was truly astounded to realize that there is so much more to it than merely distorted conception of body image and unhealthy relationship with food, weight and one’s own self. Just like it isn’t something that I can wish away and get rid of overnight by a sole desire to be normal. If there's ever such a thing...

Perhaps what I’m trying to recover from is lack of self-esteem, self-respect, confidence and self worth. From my own fears and inabilities to cope, deal and accept the limitations and finiteness of life with all the stress and frustration that come along with it. Or my own skewed perceptions and inadequacies. From painful and traumatic experiences that were never properly address and dealt with in the past. Or all of the above… In that case the recovery is going to take a lot longer- perhaps even a lifetime- so I guess I should look at it as an ongoing process rather than some kind of end result. It does take a lot more than desire, determination, committement and will power. Perhaps this is the hardest thing that I will ever accomplish in this lifetime. Perhaps full recovery is not quite possible, and i will have to be constantly on guard, looking out for signs, symptoms, watching my own thoughts. Perhaps all I can hope for is learning to deal with it and my own self day in and day out- and yet I’m hopeful, I’m willing and I know that I’m healing.

***
Recovery is slow. It’s ugly. Painful. Full of unpleasant surprises. Full of disappointments and downfalls. It seems unattainable at times. Next to impossible. Challenging in ways you’d never expect. Trying. Demanding. Exhausting. Overwhelming. Frustrating. Nerve straining. Gut wrenching. Sometimes it feels like the decease is bigger than life itself. And yet, at the same time, it bears its rewards- both small and immediate and those that are more permanent. It’s full of promises and discoveries. Educating and enlightening. But perhaps, the most rewarding aspect of recovery is how truly liberating it is and what tremendous sense of freedom you obtain in the process. You become stronger. You mature. You learn things about yourself you never thought existed. You slowly gain confidence in yourself that you’ve always lacked. Learn to appreciate yourself better. Learn to appreciate everything around you. And you learn to trust yourself-and once you do, you become open both to yourself and everything else that’s around you. Suddenly your visions are not skewed and distorted anymore. Suddenly you see things as they are. Suddenly you start noticing things around you always missed, because you were too trapped in your own illness and inside your own mind to notice anything. You learn to listen, both to yourself and others. You learn patience, both with yourself and others. You learn about compassion- both towards yourself and others- you let go of your fears- and once that happens, you know you’re free in the truest sense of the word, and that is truly amazing.