Baby Steps...

I don't sleep. Even when I'm sleeping, I don't sleep. I haven't actually slept since I "woke up" early Monday morning. Actually, that is a bit of a lie. I slept for about forty-five minutes this morning. I wasn't feeling too well, with every cough I heard "you're fat." With every sniffle I heard "lose weight." With every toss and turn I heard "you fat slob, you will never be skinny enough." I had myself convinced in a half state of being conscious, that I wasn't feeling well because I was fat. It took me a couple hours to realize how ridiculous that is and that I'm not feeling well because A. I don't sleep and B. I treat my body like shit. Going to bed is the most upsetting time of my day. I just know it's not going to happen. I'm afraid that because I'm not mobile I wont be losing enough weight. I frequently have nightmares about food and wake up in complete terror. Sleep is the most vulnerable thing a person can do. Your sub conscience is free to think what it wants, forces you to see what you don't want to see and has complete control over you for eight to ten hours a day. No matter how exhausted, frustrated and irritated I am. I don't have the ability to sleep. I want to, I just can't. I guess one of the other many things that my eating disorder is controlling in my life. 

I walked into group today with every intention of revealing something I have never said out loud before. I held myself accountable last week that this would be the week that I would tell a story. I thought I would be more than willing to talk... I was anything but willing when it came time. I thought I would uncomfortably laugh while I told my story... I cried while I struggled to spit out the words. I thought I would get through the entire story, every painful detail, every graphic moment... I froze up and uttered five words to the group and completely broke down. I don't feel better. I feel worse. I can't even bare to type it. I think it's good though that its out there in a safe room. I can go back to it next week and tell a little more of my story. Then a little more and a little more and a little more until it no longer has power over me. I was encouraged to go home and write about it. Which I clearly have no problems writing. In fact, every dirty detail of my life is written down. Every thought, every feeling, every moment. I have an abundance of pages and books of my life occurrences... This one thing however, is nowhere to be found but in my own mind, haunting me day in and day out. I can't bare to look at the words, or hear the thoughts. I just can't.