7:35 p.m. - 01/16/02
breakthroughs from the p.o.v. of brokenness.
I suppose if I believed in hell today would be the day from it. Though maybe not. This damned optimism keeps twisting things to make them seem a bit brighter, although the shame keeps twisting them the other direction. In other words I am either ambivalent or apathetic. Numb?
I succeeded in getting myself kicked out of the IOP today. That sentence is misleading because it didn't feel like an accomplishment at all; it felt like another fucking rejection, which left me bawling in Bronwyn's office. She was incredibly sweet about it, though; she even broke through the tension and touched my shoulder before I left, and she kept telling me that whenever I am able to meet the requirements of the program, they want to have me back. She was trying to convince me that this wasn't their way of loading me off on someone else, this was just the rules of the program being put into effect, but as it was when red had me packed my bags, I'm left feeling inadequate, and unwanted. A failure, basically.
I want so much to be *wanted* and there just doesn't seem to be a way to accomplish it these days. My contract says I will stay on my meal plan and not cut; meanwhile my nails are curling toward my skin of their own accord, and I'm gagging without the aid of my index finger. I haven't done *anything* except a little restricting yesterday and a little today, but I'm just about to go crazy in how powerless I feel. On top of it all, in the middle of this school-vs-recovery battle, my parents began discussing what my cousin did to me right before dinner. Now, if there's one thing I do not need when I'm feeling powerless, it's to be reminded that not only was I molested by my fucking cousin, but my parents know more about what happened than I do, thanks to the *darling* job I did of blocking it out. ::growls menacingly:: I could kill him. Not really. But I can want to.
My brother has me playing the same video games the media blamed for Columbine. It disturbs me a little bit, except, the people aren't like real people; they're like weird futuristic people, and they need to die because I'm angry and they're not real. So I try to let my boundaries between fiction and reality stay a little more clear than they normally do - though I still wince a little every time "blood" splatters against my monitor. Urgh.
Back to the day-program. Bronywn was beautiful and so was Shannon (who had left by the time it was decided I needn't return next week). We had this great conversation about mysteries and detective novels. We bitched about Agatha Christie, analyzed JK Rowling, I even recommended they read Muse Asylum and Shannon wrote it down. I really think she'll love it; I just wish that I could hear her response. God, what did I do?
I didn't eat 80 *fucking* calories; that's what I did. Shit. I couldn't eat a fucking granola bar? What the hell was the matter with me? I did 220 - 220 calories, which is not even *close* to my meal plan, and then I just quit. And they said, "You have to be eating 300 calories for us to be able to help you," and then Bronwyn said that she really enjoys working with me and she wants to continue that, so *please come back* when you're able to do that, but none of it mattered because I already knew that everyone's dead and I hate myself and deserve to be.
And my mom just came up here, and I don't know what to say to her - there's *nothing* to say to anyone except go the hell away before you're taken there...yet I end up feeling like a bitch for feeling that. Or saying that. She's trying *so hard* and I just don't give her any reward for it; I don't let her in the slightest bit, which is so fucking awful of me, but I don't know how to just give up the anger and welcome her back into my open arms.
They did fucking wrong me, you know? And I don't know how long I'm going to stay angry about that, but I do know I'd rather not sit on that anger and mime complacency. It's bullshit.
I hate her. I don't hate her. But I have this *anger* toward her that is so intense it's violent, and I don't want to hurt her; I want to hurt the anger, and that usually ends up meaning I want to hurt myself, which I can't because "I signed a contract" (actually because I don't want to go into the hospital and they might put me there - a hospital, not a residential place, not red - if I break the contract). There's all this rage and all these expletives, but the truth is, down at the bare-bones grief of it all, the pain that had me crying today when she said she was recommending I not return, I think I'm a decent enough kid that I don't deserve this shit. And I just want *someone* to acknowledge that in a full-fledged "come live with me" sort of way.
The honest truth is that: I think the circumstances are bringing out my evilness, when really, I had a lot of potential to be good.
They're looking into an intensive program for anxiety. Social anxiety, school anxiety, panic disorder, general anxiety. I'm glad. I want them to finally tell me why the hell a four-year-old girl had to be scared she was about to walk off the edge of the world.
I want to go to Hogwarts without the fear or Voldemort, comprende?
clawingchord
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