Skinny rant

In the light of one of Tamara's recent post on skinny bitches and my response to a not so recent comment on my appearance as in "You look great. You look skinny now..."

I thought I had learned to stay immune to weight related comments. Although there haven’t been many of those comments lately, in the past my mood and well being were often determined by these very comments. Those who have known me for a while, were able to observe quite a few noticeable weight fluctuations over the course of the last ten years – first a gradual, then drastic decrease then similarly gradual, unavoidable and necessary increase as I finally and fully committed myself to recovery from eating disorder. Both the weight gain and subsequent other odd bodily changes that accompanied my recovery were a great source of frustration. However, I would often, out of instinct of self preservation and self assurance rebuff all negative comments about this noticeable weight gain with “Good, now I look human size.” And yet, it turns out that I’m not totally immune to body related comments, since this particular one, thrown at me weeks ago got me more than a little baffled to say the least. One of my acquaintances who hadn’t seen me for over a year, said, upon seeing me again in the beginning of June, with the casual “You look great” “So do you. You look different.” “Different how?” “Different like you’ve lost a lot of weight. You look skinny now…” The only thing I was able to come up in response was “So I was fat before?” – a comment that I had to force myself to suppress. But as it turns out, this little comment has been circling in my mind for quite a while now, perhaps longer than it should have, and here’s my attempt to write something coherent on an otherwise complicated and tangled mess that weight related issues once used to be.

In the past I would have gotten an immense satisfaction with such comment. I have to admit that for a fraction of a moment I still felt that satisfaction that in the past would get me going for days, substituting food, rest and everything else. Good, I’m skinny now, which means I’m accepted, pretty, desired, my reduced weight and shrunken size adding to my “worthiness.” Then a more uncomfortable feeling from the past crept in – “so I was fat before?” and the subsequent dismay at my “then” self, the fat one, to turn into a full blown loathing and malice towards her. Then, a newly acquired, out of the newly found instinct of self preservation I had to stop myself from going any further down the line of hatred and dismay and I had an urge to simply hug and hold the “then” self, protect her from this negativity, tell her that “it’s ok… you were no less important then, no less worthy then than you are now…” Looking at it with these new, loving eyes I was able to see that I was happy then, regardless of the slightly excess weight. For the first time in years my life was not controlled by weight related moods and insecurities. I was slowly starting to recover. I was getting better, stronger. I was happy. In the past the destructive “You were fat before” would deny and obliterate this feeling of happiness altogether, because I was fat – thus not worthy to be so obliviously happy. Now all I wanted to do was to shield that feeling of happiness, just like I would shield that past self from all the malice and negativity that could possibly come not only from the outside world, but from within as well…

The truth is, a year ago I wasn’t fat. Not medically speaking that is. In fact, I do not think that I was ever fat, in medical terms, again. Even at my heaviest, and that is when I got an eating disorder, I was still within a healthy BMI – closer to its highest rank at times, but there was nothing wrong with me, nothing alarming, not even remotely to be classified as obese, and certainly nothing requiring such drastic intervention as starving or throwing up all over myself. And yet, just like through the eyes of my insecurities I never thought I was good enough, through the skewed vision of eating disordered mind I was never skinny enough… Or pretty enough. Or worthy enough. Had I had the knowledge, understanding, acceptance and maturity of the present, I would have looked at my far from stick skinny body at the age of sixteen as a normal, natural state of affairs, necessary for further growth and development, instead of spending close to a decade hand in hand with an eating disorder that could have potentially ended up killing me. And even then, even at my skinniest and most desired double zero size, I was miserable, unhappy, insecure, depressed, sick not only mentally but physically as well.

I am not exactly sure when exactly and how I decided that I wanted to recover. Perhaps it was due to a series of very sad and unfortunate events that I was able to see how fucked up my entire life was, how distorted and inadequate my perceptions were, and how, if I continued the way I did, I would eventually extinguish myself and die. I suddenly realized that I no longer wanted or needed an eating disorder and a chaotic life. All I wanted was to be normal, and just like I said in one of my previous posts, by normal I first and foremost wanted to me a normally functioning human being. One that does not see food as a source of comfort, or fear or loathing or a way to release frustration and pain and anger, but only as basic, most primitive means to survival. Normal in a way that food is perceived not as pleasure or a means to soothe pain, but as essential nutrients that the body relies on to have its organs work and its processes carried out. Normal in terms of not having to pass out sporadically every now and then because of low blood sugar and slow heart rate. Normal in terms of perceiving hunger signals as the body’s way of saying that it’s time to refuel instead of panicking and freaking out. I remember reading a phrase somewhere (and i forgot where, thus the lack of proper credit to the source, for which I apologize) that expressed its author’s desire to get back to the time when she did not know what a calorie was, and I realized that that was what I wanted as well.

Early recovery was hard. It was tricky, challenging, physically painful, mentally demanding. Partly because I was unaware how great of a challenge I was facing. Partly because I did not know what to expect. Partly because despite the abundance of ED literature and resources both online and in print, I couldn’t find anything that would tell me what recovery felt like… and that is physically. Part of the challenge was the fact that early on during recovery one inevitably starts gaining weight. In many cases, especially with those affected by anorexia, this weight gain is vital for apparent reasons. In my case, since even at my frailest, I never fell below the lows of healthy BMI, this weight gain was perhaps one of the main sources of dismay, anguish and pain. For those affected by eating disorders, even an ounce of gained weight is an event that equals the end of the world. It certainly makes recovery more difficult. Resisting this weight gain gets one stuck in a vicious loop – you start eating normally, end up gaining weight, freak out, try to get rid of it by resorting to the only way you know how to control your weight and end up being back in square one. Reading some of the blogs by those who are trying to recover, this weight gain issue seems to be a common woe. The only advice that I can give to them, as someone who has actually recovered is this: STOP THINKING ABOUT. THE WEIGHT GAIN. Ignore it if you can. I know it is much harder to do than it sounds here, otherwise we wouldn’t be where we’re at, would we? However, if you can gather up all the effort you can find and overcome this hurdle, you will start getting better. Much quicker than you think it’ll take you. The longer you resist this weight gain, the longer it is going to take you to recover. Accept this weight gain as a necessary stage in your recovery, or even better, as a sign, a good sign that you’re starting to get better. There really is a reason for this weight gain. Without going into scientific detail, I would just say that your body is an intricate mechanism that doesn’t merely operate on energy in/energy out formula, as many blindly tend to believe. Your body works on complex self-regulating processes controlled by many different hormones, innate and acquired reflexes and what not else. Once out of its natural balance, it starts acting in most unexpected ways. In case of ED, your body has to constantly struggle to live on the bare minimum that you give it in terms of food every now and again. Of course that’s going to throw it off of its balance. Of course it’s going to go on survival mode. Of course you’re going to start gaining weight, once you start eating normally, even if all you eat is bare chicken breast and steamed veggies – your body will be holding on to its dear calories with its life, until it gets used to being regularly and adequately fed. However, once your body gets back to its balanced state, the excess weight that it has been holding on to so tightly for the fear of next famine, will slowly start to disappear. Trust me, it will happen. Until then, all you have to do is concentrate on eating healthy and balanced meals, something similar to what Tamara once posted here and here.

Back to the skinny comment– a year ago, I was still recovering. That’s when the friend saw me before we met up a few weeks ago. That’s what he was comparing the “skinny” me of a few weeks ago with. Hence the comment. The initial confusion described in the opening two paragraphs of this post aside, I have long stopped looking at myself in terms of skinny or fat. It no longer matters, now that I have recovered. I am neither skinny or fat. I am me. I’m normal. I’m healthy, I look healthy. I feel good and happy. Food is no longer a controlling factor in my life. It’s merely a necessity. Pleasant necessity that is. One other side affect or a bonus point of the recovery was that I stopped looking at food in terms of good or bad, healthy or unhealthy. Of course some of the food items out there should not be allowed to be sold to the public; hence I think that FDA is a useless institution that does not do its main job- protect the public. However, the reason I do not let myself get too carried away with the whole healthy eating thing is because a) I know how obsessive I can get, and switching one obsession with another merely defeats its purpose and b) the idea of recovery is not to learn to altogether shun all the unhealthy food, but is to learn to live with your choices, good ones and bad ones. The objective is that I don’t flip out every time I’m facing a slice of pizza. The objective is to be able to eat a donut and be ok with it. We live in a world of pizzas, and hamburgers and brownies and donuts – and although it’s always a choice between a slice of greasy pizza or lean turkey breast, I want to be ok when I choose the former instead of the latter every once in a while. I am finally at a point when these choices are no longer conscious efforts and struggles, but are intuitive, and balance each other out in the course of the time. And damnit, if I want a brownie, I am going to have one, without thinking about how many calories I will be consuming, or how I need to go for a run the next morning to make up for it.

I do enjoy running these days. Sometimes I wish I could run more regularly, or rather consistently, but I never allow the necessity to run to control my life or my schedule. Once a compulsive exerciser, I was well aware, that exercise abuse is just another aspect of what makes up eating disorders. I had to watch myself carefully not to fall down that pit yet again. At this point, almost like with everything else that I do these days, I run because I like it and not because I feel like I have to for the sake of staying thin or even for health reasons. Running feels good. It’s a challenge, and I like to challenge myself and test the limits of my reach, both mentally and physically. Some attribute this weight loss by the fact that I started running and that now I get more exercise that I used to back then. However, I think that the key is learning to balance, both my meals and my exercise, without falling into one extreme or another.

So there, perhaps a more lengthy response than I’d ever care to put effort to write, but perhaps some day someone will stumble upon this site and find this post helpful, somewhat encouraging. Reassuring. For now, after weeks of pondering and a four page confession, I am finally able to put the issue aside and shrug it off with a whatever.

On hurt and anger

As mentioned earlier, lately I have been having some reoccurring bouts of hurt and anger, issues that I’ve never been well equipped to properly deal with, hence my almost decade long history of eating disorders and other self-destructive behaviors often accompanied with long periods of depression and apathy. They say that eating disorders are not just about food and weight and body image, but much greater underlying issues. The behavior itself is merely a coping mechanism to deal with these issues. When treating eating disorders, therapy is almost always recommended, so that these underlying issues are revealed, addressed and either eliminated or offered healthier coping mechanisms to deal with. Sometimes together with antidepressants and anxiety medication. Sometimes without.

I recovered from my eating disorder without therapy. In fact, I did it on my own, without any medical intervention. Whether I did it the right way or the wrong way, whether I would get the same, if not better and faster results had I received proper treatment, remains subject for speculations. The fact is I am recovered. As far as eating disorder is concerned, I no longer have it, i.e. I no longer turn to food when trying to deal with whatever it is that’s bothering me, and food, although being an essential part of my life, is no more or less than what it should be - a means to meet my bodily needs so that I can further function. Some of the accompanying issues, such as weight, looks, body image and certain insecurities disappeared as I recovered. And yet, other issues remain, those that are no longer classified under “eating disorder” and are more from the department of personality fucked-upness.

The truth is, I addressed the eating disorder and the recovery from the other end. Therapy aims to eliminate the issues, so that there is nothing to cope with, hence no need for disordered behavior. I eliminated the behavior itself. Just like that. One day, already sort of half- heartedly in recovery, after a very unfortunate incident and having realized just how fucked up exactly I was, I simply decided that all I wanted was to be normal. And by saying normal I first and foremost wanted to me a normally functioning human being. One that does not see food as a source of comfort, or fear or loathing or a way to release frustration and pain and anger, but only as basic, most primitive means to survival. Normal in a way that food is perceived not as pleasure or a means to soothe pain, but as essential nutrients that the body relies on to have its organs work and processes carried out. Normal in terms of not having to pass out sporadically every now and then because of low blood sugar and slow heart rate. Normal in terms of perceiving hunger signals as the body’s way of saying that it’s time to refuel instead of panicking and freaking out. Normal in terms of being able to menstruate regularly. Normal to be able to have children one day, even if that day appears far far away.

So I got that part straightened out. Rewired the whole food perception thing and hunger/satiety impulses. Recovered the chemical balance of hormones and whatever else it is that keeps the body running. Relearned to eat all over again, as if I were a toddler, newly introduced to solid food. It wasn’t easy. By no means I want to imply that it was easy. But I did try to make it as easy as I possibly could, and one way of doing it was to separate the physical and physiological aspect of recovery from emotional part. In fact, I had to completely shut out the latter, so that I had to deal only with one thing at a time. Actually I was so successful in separating these two aspects, that for a while, nothing mattered more than just getting into a habit of eating. No emotion would get in the way of my having to have my breakfast on time. No emotion actually mattered, except for the feeling of satisfaction, the happy feeling of satiety, the fact that I survived yet another carefully planned, proportioned and balanced meal. I can’t say exactly how long it took to come to that point, but I did come to a point where “normal eating” became a habit and food no longer had to do with anything emotional.

I remember though, at some point in recovery, when I was doing relatively well and was already well into this habit of “eating” I had to stop myself and ask myself: what exactly is it that I was trying to recover from? Is it merely an eating disorder? Is it my insecurities, low self-esteem and the notion that I’m never good enough? Is this eating disorder merely a coping mechanism, and if it is, what exactly am I trying to cope with? And if so, what happens after I no longer have the familiar, at times comforting habit of relying on eating disorder when dealing with all these issues that got me sick in the first place?

Really, what happens when you no longer have the familiar ways of dealing with some of the emotional, more challenging issues?

The disordered behavior stopped a while ago, the issues, or at least some of them, are still out there. In fact, they’re so out there, that they seem to be all over the place these days. When I had an eating disorder, I could tuck them away, keep them out of everybody’s sight, and hide them so well that even I couldn’t see them. And now that I no longer have the habitual mechanism, I do not know what to do with myself, and how to keep some of these unpleasant issues at bay. And lately, despite my seemingly good mood and overall cheerfulness, some of these issues have been really all over the place.

So here’s the issue at hand - I do not know how to deal with anger. There, I said it. It’s out there, staring at my face. For a very long time I would repress it for as long as I possibly could and would try to cope with it the only way I knew how to – starving, overeating, purging. It worked. For a very long time it worked. Back then I had control over my eating disorder. I had something I could hold on to. As I got sicker, I started losing control over the decease, and instead, it started controlling me. I also lost control over my anger, which still unaddressed and unvoiced, managed to escape in spurts of most graceless and unbecoming rage – violent rage that on several occasions resulted in screaming (I am otherwise a very quiet and soft-spoken person), slamming doors, breaking dishes and either locking myself or wandering away for hours. I have seen in the past how destructive I can get when I am enraged, how completely annihilating, spiteful, cruel and merciless I can be, and since most of the time this anger was caused by someone who loved me, I was most cruel and merciless towards him. In a way I am afraid of that part of me and can only pray that it never, ever comes up to the surface and shows its ugly face again. But at the same time, it’s been a while since I have experienced anything as powerful as these episodes of rage. Not in the last couple of years, at least. I could only assume that such violent bouts of rage were caused by some kind of chemical imbalance and the situation itself called for it; whereas right now I’m more stable “chemically” and in a situation that excludes anything as extreme as rage…

I do get angry still. And even if I don’t scream and shout, it still comes out to the surface. In a different form, but it does. The problem is, I don't know how to get angry. Visibly angry. The old habit is to either completely repress the anger or readdress is, so that instead of being angry at whoever it is I should be angry at, I end up being angry at myself. It is a very deeply engraved habit – this redirecting of anger inward, instead of outward. And it has very, very debilitation consequences. Hurt and anger make me feel helpless and vulnerable. My first reaction to both is to distance myself, shut completely off and disappear, so that nobody sees just how hurt I am, so that nobody notices that I am actually angry. I am very sensitive, and despite the ability to pull of that “I’m tough enough to be that bad ass bitch who would stab you from behind”, I get hurt easily. Without really showing it. Anger and hurt also make me spiteful. Ridiculously spiteful. In a calm, calculating, deliberate way. In a way that I am well aware that I’m being spiteful. And want to continue being spiteful.

So lately I have been feeling hurt and angry and spiteful on more than one occasion. Won’t go into boring details, suffice to say that whatever it was that got me upset was big enough to make me angry. And once again, because I still do not seem to be able to simply say “Don’t do that”, “Stop”, “I’m angry”, “You’re hurting me”, I remained silent and had to deal with these emotions alone. And here’s what I discovered - apart from the feeling of helplessness and vulnerability on one hand, and consequent spite on the other hand, anger, repressed anger that is, affects me directly, in a distinct physical way – pain, shooting pain in the abdomen, that goes away as soon as I’ve calmed down and the incident has somehow resolved itself. Although I’m way too preoccupied these days to further research this, I remember reading about something similar to this, not in a medial study or scientific journal, but in one of the most brilliantly written pieces of fiction by Doris Lessing, “The Golden Notebook.” She does not speak of anger directly, but she writes about pain, emotional pain, that expresses itself through physical pain that is felt in a tight and throbbing spot right below the diaphragm, where the muscles intersect. The way the stomach muscles clench and contract in the feeling of apprehension when encountered by unpleasant situations and emotions. I remember how this sunk in, when I first read it. I remember thinking how hurt exactly one has to be to have emotional discomfort express itself through physical pain. Maybe right now I’m taking it way too literally, and maybe it’s just a trick of imagination, but I did notice that I become physically ill when angry, hurt and spiteful. And that it the last thing I rather deal with in my otherwise unclouded everydayness.

To address the issue at hand, I should simply ask myself why exactly it is that I cannot voice anger. Why is it so hard to admit that I am hurt? Why can I not let someone other than myself know that they’re hurting me, especially when they have no clue that that’s what they’re doing?

I think I’m still operating under a false belief that showing emotion, showing pain is a sign of weakness, makes me vulnerable. Being hurt and angry makes me feel helpless, and makes me want to distance myself, shut myself off and disappear. Spite that comes in response to this anger is merely a defense mechanism. A way to protect myself and shield my vulnerability.

Another false belief – most of the time I don’t voice anger because somehow I believe that whatever it is that’s bothering me is not important enough, is irrelevant, petty, petty enough to be ignored, and yet strong enough to give me ulcerous pains. So for the sake of keeping certain appearances I remain quiet. Cool and understanding. As long as I’m not seen as “that girl with those issues.” And in return I get… stomach ache.

And lastly, the source of my recent anger was someone I am very close with. Relationship, which, like any other, however wonderful and idyllic, has its challenging moments. And despite the fact that I do not want to discuss the relationship here (not in this post at least), I have to admit that there is an awful lot of fear, and uncertainty and insecurity involved in it, being the relationship “idiot” that I am. Maybe I am merely avoiding confrontation, or perhaps I’m secretly trying to protect him from my own anger. Maybe I am just plain afraid that if I voice each and every frustration that I have, instead of letting things slide, I will create further complications and simply drive him away. That if I keep wanting to have my things too much my way, I will end up losing everything entirely. That if I show just how much this “seemingly petty stuff” affects me, I will alienate him and end up being rejected.

Reread the last paragraph. Pretty pathetic, I have to admit. But then, upset digestion is no less pathetic. The fact that I can’t deal with anger is no less pathetic. I do, for the most part, let a lot of things slide. There are a lot more things that leave me unaffected than those that don't. But some stuff, however petty, I simply can’t let slide. And I can’t sit with anger, hoping that it goes away. Does it mean that I have to rewire myself, gather up the courage and simply say that “You know, there must be a more creative way to spend a weekend.” Petty? Maybe. But since my greatest source of joy and happiness these days comes from everyday little things, lost weekends provide enough ground for me to get upset. And angry. For days. Whereas it might just as well have been successfully avoided or at least properly addressed. I'm yet to find out. For now, I am still to learn that if it is something that got me upset, then it must not be all that petty after all.

In my dream i was my mother, and i was taking little me to a piano class. Little me was about four or five- way too young to play the piano- but i was taking her to a class anyway. She kept falling behind, and every once in a while i had to stop for her to catch up, yet she was reluctant, she kept telling me she didn't want to go, and i had to take her in my arms and carry her to what i remember to be my old music school... because i thought it was necessary, because i thought that one day when she'd grown she'd be thankful that i had given her a chance at something, anything...

i keep thinking about everything that my parents did for me. all the time, and effort and patient dedication to make sure that they did their best to try and bring me up, even if i chose not to become a pianist, or a dancer, or a writer... i wonder if i would be where i am today, had it not been for that piano class. or the trips to the park. or the endless books i had when i was growing up. i wonder if it would be different if i didn't know that my parents did the best they could... and taught me what it is like, giving the best you can at whatever you choose.

... the sad thing is that somehow, and somewhere along the way, i stopped trying my best.
i started falling behind. stopped trying. Gave up without even starting. perhaps it was just an easy way out, deciding that i was too weak, that somehow doing my best was no longer enough. being smart and driven just wasn't enough. and however wonderful i was, or tried to be, it was not enough.

Will it ever be enough? good enough. meaningful enough, worth a try... or whether i have to work just as hard in finding a point before making an attempt to reach out for something, anything...

my broken faith has me tied to a spot. and i, like the child in the dream, am reluctant to move forward... or maybe i still, even as an adult, need that someone or something, to pick me up and help me move on. until i can make the impossible effort and give it my best like i used to... because ... ? in the end all that matters is knowing that i did all i could?

"Raison d'Etre" - comments to a post

"have you ever thought that you dont need a reason to be. You already are. That's one big reason enough in itself. Seriously, from the most basic existential point, you really don't have to have a reason or a purpose to exist. Your own existence should be enough. this may sound absurd and even nonsensical, but when you really come to appreciate life in its true sense, in its simplicity, realizing that the only alternative that you have to it is death, or non-being, you realize how truly wonderful it is, to be alive. Even if your own existence appears boring, meaningless, mundane, horrible, full of sufferings or whatever.

And just like that, you dont have any higher obligations in this life than to be. That's the only obligation that you owe to yourself. TO BE. in its truest sense. You dont have to be anything. You dont have to be rich, smart, successful, pretty, funny or anything. You dont have to have a career, a status, praise, recognition or whatever either. These are not obligations. Merely desires or motivations for people who unfortunately take them too far and turn it to obsessions or obligations, letting their own fears feed off of them... "If i'm not smart enough, pretty enough, successful enough, if i dont have this or that or that..." then what? That's why there are so many people with so many neurosis and psychosis and all kinds of disorders, eating disorders being one of them...

You have to realize that all you have in this life is your own life. In its every passing moments. And the most you can make of that life is to enjoy every moment of it as much as you can. It's not a day at a time. It's a moment at a time. Some of those moments last with you. And go with you a long way. That's what your motivation can be, if you dont have any other external source motivating you. I am not taking about those grand "just-won a lottery" moments. I am talking about simple moments like... waking up in the morning. Realizing that you could just as well not have had the chance. It's being able to use and feel all of your senses. and experience the world around you with those senses. It's being able to actually FEEL the sunlight on your skin, feel the warmth or the coldness of one object or another, it's being able to TASTE, REALLY taste the food you're eating. It's being able to breathe, see, hear... those are the moments that you have to take one at a time. The reason that i'm going at such great lengths describing you all this is because THIS is what helped me recover. It was again, very slow. A moment at a time. But it worked and is still working. Every time i get wound up with something, upset with something, or forget the very basics of what it means to be alive, i have to gently remind myself about it, get back to that very first moment of the day, when i open my eyes, and realized that i'm awake. and alive. Because once there was a very tangible possibility that i wouldn't be..."

"What do you wish you had more of in life?"

"Optimism..."

"I dreamed I was running through a strange house, looking for my daughter. I found her — though it wasn't really her — and grabbed her by the arm. "You didn't eat dinner last night, did you?" I shouted. "What did you have for breakfast?" Not-Kitty smiled. "A teaspoon of air," she said sweetly."

One Spoonful At A Time

By HARRIET BROWN

Published: November 26, 2006
The New York Times

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...]