8:25 p.m. - 04/18/02
constantly re-typing words I spell the English way...
Running around in my head too long today. Been up since three, did lots of things I wasn't supposed to do - such as studying for more than two hours - and then when I tried to go outside for my 20 minutes (I'm supposed to venture out for at least a walk 20 minutes a day, to combat "psychological atrophy" - i.e. to keep from being comfortable as an agoraphobic) I only made it about five. It's weird how my responses differ. For instance, if there is a wasp in the kitchen when I wake up in the morning, and no one will be home until five, I am not typically too terrified. I figure, I will stay out of the wasp's way, the wasp will do whatever he/she pleases, and when someone gets home and guides the dear little wingerstinger outside, all will be well. But, if a wasp is hanging out around me when I'm outside (outside- where there should be wasps, where the wasp is in its natural environment) I completely can't deal with it. Of course, in general I'm convinced there's a threat if I'm outside the house. It goes for being up in my room, too. If I venture upstairs to go to bed, and find some sort of insect loitering in my room, I completely freak out. I think I'm convinced that if I just go to sleep, it will attack me in the night.
My theory here is that this is not just about bugs. My theory is that these situations and their relative, corresponding levels of anxiety, would hold true in other circumstances. And most likely, they go back to something...for instance, if bad things are happening in my home, I know where I can run. If I run to my room, and there is a perceived "threat" there, I feel invaded, homeless, and afraid. If I am on someone else's turf, a place where I feel a complete lack of control, the fear is magnified even further, which would make sense considering that both of the times I was not-exactly-well-maybe-abused, I was at the home of the other person involved.
This is just one of many random things running about in my head today. I have decided that I hate eating disorders. I already knew I hated the illnesses, but I seriously can't stand the topic. I mean, I'm interested, I can't finish this fricking paper I'm so interested (just one more source, just one more source, just one more source) but I'm seriously sick with the ratio of pro-illness to pro-recovery. Someone needs to write a book about *that.*
I would, but my attention span sucks. When I was in middle school, I wrote novels. Now I can barely write poems...So sad.
What else is there to say? Hmm. Don't know why I changed the layout, other than that I was up at three this morning and didn't want to try studying (ok, couldn't study) without taking my new meds...but I didn't want to take my new meds in case I fell asleep (and because taking a med for the first time is always scary; you never know what it's going to do to you.) Red has never been my color, but I think I associate this shade with how I'm feeling now. It's the color of so many things that add up to insanity. Or feel to.
I wish I were interesting, but I can't find the words to entertain myself, and I'm currently developing a psychosomatic allergic reaction to a piece of fruit I just ate. (Oh, yes, Mary, let's take ED to a whole new level.) I think there was mold on the fruit (I saw some and threw it out, but there was a bit missing from the growth) and I'm terribly allergic to mouth. So I'm convinced my throat is closing up and I'll wake in the morning, swollen and unable to speak. Or perhaps I swallowed it and I will have to enjoy the ever-distressing process of throwing up involuntarily when you used to be bulimic.
Or are bulimic...or...however this works.
You know what would make me really, really happy? A tiny little clubhouse. Like a closet. And people would come knock on the door, and they'd have to stoop to enter, and they wouldn't stay long because it was so cramped, but I would feel safe and cozy, and not the slightest bit claustrophobic.
This doctor, he's trying so hard, but he has no idea how much I'd give for walls. It might be he and I for eight more weeks, that is if I'm ok with waiting. He said that the Therapist Who Makes People Drop To Their Knees In Homage *might* be able to see me then. Or rather he said, "She said she'd really love to take care of you, but her practice is just really full right now" and I was like...she wants to *take care* of me? Like, in the really legitimate non-babysitter way I know you'll be a stickler for? Like the way I'm straining to be taken care of, the way I'm begging to be taken care of, the way that makes everything so hard? Do you have any idea how long eight weeks is? My whole life changed in just past that...
Tomorrow the Teacher returns. She's postponing the test. I think that means I have it and standardized testing (for the school, not for me) next week...these pills really better be godsends.
(One of them *is* habit-forming. I'm terrified...I'm so susceptible to dependency, and I'm in such a compulsive cycle right now. It's my first day taking them, and I'm already thinking, "I need to calm down so I can read this" ... when I've taken my two doses and am no longer supposed to be reading. One of very few things I've *never tried* is drugs, and I'd really like to keep it that way. The last time I had trouble was when I got home from Rogers. I fantasized almost constantly about taking too much Benedryl so that I could sleep continuously instead of just my 'measly' 16 hrs a day...)
I really hope the defining factor in changing my emotional state is not finding a new therapist. Because I don't think I can withstand this for eight more weeks. Dr. R said something yesterday about how I was doing well hanging on, that the goal right now was survival, (funny how good that sounded at this point), and that he really thought this was a rollercoaster fall as opposed to an off-a-cliff fall. I cringed instantly. "I *hate* rollercoasters," I murmured, and, to my surprise he said, "Exactly. Let's *hate* this."
And I was like...yes. Let's hate it and make it change.
chord
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