Thoughts about another You-Tube I saw, this one a rah rah recovery one, compared to my own life

This was another one I saw, and I watched the whole thing through.  A young girl who uses the word “recovery,” a word I choose not to use.

Anyway, some days I look through the You-Tubes and I hope it does not show up on Facebook which You-Tubes I am watching cuz it’s none of anyone’s business.  If it is showing up, then I am disconnecting the two accounts.  Sometimes, I watch some stuff I’d like no one to know about.

Actually, I like watching flicks of people dropping dead.  I have a bunch of them bookmarked.  I am fascinated with this.  These probably eventually get taken off You-Tube and aren’t supposed to be there. They are all rather gross and for many people would consider them “sensitive material” or “triggering” but I consider it “real life.”  I am fascinated with death and it’s kind of a release for me, it satisfies a deep inner need for me to watch really violent, horrible deaths.

But I want to talk about this so-called “recovery” You-Tube I saw.  She has a bunch of them out.  A young girl, doing very well.  Let me describe what I saw.

She was out in her yard.  Now, this girl is obviously from a very well-to-do family, judging by the yard and what I saw of the house.  I mean really well-to-do.

Here’s how she got better.  She decided one day that she was in trouble, so first after a lengthy debate, she told her mom.  Her mom took it well.  Her mom got her into a “support group.”  Then, eventually, the girl told her dad.  It was a little more difficult, but her dad was accepting, too, and all worked out fine.  Sounds like her friends accepted it, too, and she mentioned nothing about losing any friends over this.  The “support group” turned out to be all she needed, and she is on her way.  She is gaining weight and doing fine.

She has a huge following on You-Tube and everyone tells her how beautiful she is.  Indeed, she is very pretty and has everything going for her.  I think her weight looks just fine to me considering her age, but she says she has more weight to gain.  She talks about all the food she loves to eat.

Recovery, rah rah rah.  Oh yeah, caught it early.  She’s a hero, all right.  I guess she was “sick” for maybe less than a year or maybe a year at most.

Me, 34 years, baby.

But for me, it was 1980, and no one had heard of eating disorders, and I didn’t even know I had one.  I knew I needed help so I went to the local therapy place.  I had a good therapist, but she had never heard of eating disorders, either, and didn’t know what she was dealing with.  I didn’t get better with her.  I got worse.

Guess it was the same story, different time.

I went and told my parents.  No, they were not okay with it.  I overheard my mom telling my dad, “She gives me the creeps” one night.  Gee, that kinda sucked. They didn’t know what the hell to do with me and we fought a lot.

No, I don’t have a zillion You-Tube fans.  I don’t think too many people even bother watching what I have up there.  I’m not rah rah recovery and I didn’t go to a support group and magically get better.  I don’t have a rich house.  I live in poverty.  I talk about reality.  Maybe that’s a little too raw for people.

And I guess those that find it too raw aren’t even bothering to read this right now.  Well, the heck with it.

Wish I had the guts

Oh honestly, I don’t really care what people think of what I say on here.  You guys know exactly what I am talking about and what I wish I had the guts to do.

Folks that don’t have the guts to read what my writings or find what I say “triggering” or are sick of reading my writings or haven’t found me yet or (most likely) don’t give a shit are not reading this right now.  Or, of course, those that hate my guts and aren’t around for that reason.  Oh, that too.

And really, I don’t care.  The day I stop losing friends I’m really going to be rather shocked and it’s gonna take some getting used to.  “Goodbye, fuck you,” seems to be my motto.  So if that’s the way it is, that’s the way it is.

Hey, does talk of wanting to die make you uncomfortable?  Then maybe it’s time we talked about it right here, right now.  And my reasons why.  If you don’t like it you can just close the window.

I saw on You-Tube (not that I watched the whole thing through, I got bored) a thingy about this young woman, late 20’s, who was anorexic and they had her frustrated parents on there.  I thought her parents looked kinda old to have a daughter that young.  Maybe they smoked and it made them appear older than they really were, all wrinkly and haggard and stuff.  She looked about her age.  She looked like she had been through a lot and actually presented herself in a rather mature manner, and it also looked like she made an effort to dress nicely, too.  I knew it was hard for her in regards to the clothes part.  Let me explain that part for a sec.

See, she had been wicked underweight, starving herself a lot, but then something happened, I’m not sure what, I think they forced drugs on her, and she gained weight.  Quite a lot.  Then she had some pain associated with the physical stuff that was going on (maybe she had some bone issues, they didn’t go into it) so she took pain pills too, and downers, too.  Mostly, she used the pills, which she was now addicted to, to cope with her bad feelings about the weight gain.  She took an awful lot of pills a day, many downers, and she’d built up a tolerance.  From what it sounded, her weight was about what a “normal” person might call “normal” weight for her height.  So was she “recovered” from her anorexia?

To me, she looked very, very uncomfortable in her body, and you could see her hatred toward her body in her eyes despite the fact that she’d made such an effort to dress well for the show.  She looked so much more comfortable with herself when she was thinner, at least to me she did.

I felt so, so sorry for her, not so much because of the drug addiction, which was now probably killing her (I didn’t bother to see the rest of the show, I got bored of the drugs part) but because I felt she felt so awful about her body and she said a number of times, “I want to go back to the way I was before.”

Wow, can I identify.  I guess a lot of folks would have said she was pretty good-looking but to me, that self-hatred obliterated it all. That’s how I feel about my body right now.

I haven’t showered in like a week or so, probably less than that.  I think maybe  Tuesday night I showered.  Then, since then, I haven’t bothered.    My legs are blue, all bruised from the skin having stretched so much from rapid weight gain.  Actually, it’s just as well I haven’t showered, cuz the skin is cracking all over the place and I would end up with bad sores like I have before.  If I showered, my skin would dry out worse.  The sores can get infected and take months to heal.  As for my belly, well, it’s bad, too, looks pregnant, worse than that, all stuck out and with stretch marks and bruising on that, too.  Normally, it kinda sinks in and you can see my ribs and stuff.  Well, no more.

I do take drugs.  I douse myself up with laxatives as often and as much as I can get away with.  This is for comfort.  It gets the food material out of my body quicker so I don’t have to carry it around for what ends up being all day and into the next.  If I did not abuse laxatives, I would quickly become impacted, anyway.  A normal body cannot process this huge amount of food without abusing laxatives.  Last year, I got impacted and miserable and I remember having all sorts of gas and stuff and it was bad, I was burping a lot, too, it was worse than this physically.  I think if I abuse laxatives, I lessen the risk of stomach rupture.  I think the electrolyte imbalance risk is also a problem, but stomach rupture is probably a bigger risk IN MY CASE.  Try explaining that to a doctor, and most physical doctors tell me I will throw up before my stomach will rupture and I try to tell them no, this does not happen, my stomach will not throw up. They laugh in my face and tell me to try some self-control.  Or give me some psycho mumbo jumbo that is not their territory.

I have been taking the meds I’m supposed to take but I’m sure they are having minimal effect.  Oh and I douse myself up with double-dose Klonopin so I can sleep all day whenever I get the chance.  This is so I won’t eat.  And so I won’t live, that is, so I won’t experience anything, so I can just shut down and be asleep and not do anything all day, pretend I’m dead.  I’d take 6 mgs, but I don’t quite dare.  I’m not exactly teensy anymore, but I’m not really grandiose either.  So 6 mgs would be a lot on a guy, too.  I took 4 mgs a number of hours ago but with all the food loaded up in my stomach, these pills have done nothing.  I figure my body will be digesting the food forever and forever and the Klonopin will kick in by 2 pm.  Then, I won’t be able to walk a straight line.  I hope I can sleep really, really nicely for many hours and forget that I’m alive.

I don’t take these pills for anxiety.  I take them to make sure I’m totally knocked out.  That’s the one and only reason I take them, so that’s why I take the largest dose I dare.  I hate the dopey feeling I get from them when I’m awake.  I’d rather not be doped up while conscious.  Actually, if I could be asleep 24/7 and just wake up to walk the dog and then go back to sleep again, I’d do it.  Just sleep day after day after day and do nothing.   Definitely, that’s better than spending my time binge eating.

Sleeping the day away is better than doing just about anything, better than hanging with people because people have been mean fuckers lately.  I can’t even stand walking down the street and walking near a crowd of people, I feel hateful feelings toward them.  Like I want to tell them what assholes they are.

These folks were saying, “Happy Mothers Day!” to each other, hugging each other and putting their arms around each other.  I wanted to tell them, “Yeah, assholes.  Go celebrate.  Eat and get fat.”  Cuz all that hugging and stuff is so foreign to me.  I have no family, no one to say, “Happy Mother’s Day” to, no one to put my arm around, no one to say, “See ya later,” or “It was nice seeing you,” or whatever.  It’s all like a different world to me.

Do you understand what I am saying?  I have NO ONE.  NO ONE.  No human to hug and love.  Boy does that ever make me appreciate  my dog a whole lot.

I guess when I hold onto that little furry creature, for hours and hours every day, I guess that makes me tell myself I don’t have the guts just yet.

Joking around about my ex-therapist, M

First of all, where did she get the money for the posh office in downtown Boston?  I don’t mean JP or Brighton or Revere, I mean Downtown Boston, not too far from our dear old Boston Marathon, well, not that close either, but not too far away.  Actually, her office wasn’t all that far from my alma mater, Emerson College.  Apparently she has a new office but it’s around the corner and I’m sure it’s ten times even more posh.  Where did she get the damn bucks for that office?

No, this was not some office she was sharing with ten other therapists.  Yes, it was a shared waiting room and there were other individual offices that used the same waiting room, but no other therapist used her office, and no other therapist used her computer.  This was her fucking office and once she left it, no therapist used it, ever.  She was not some fly-by-night therapist like that quack I saw a couple of months ago.  And yes, she was licensed and had her LICSW, meaning she could “section.”  Oooh, she loved that power, too, probably why one reason she chose the degree in the first place.

So you’d go up to the penthouse, that would be the 11th floor.  Now you’d get off the elevator and there you’d be.  No other offices would be there, just her waiting room and the other therapy offices.  Sometimes, some yoga people would be there, but usually it was just M doing her thing with the other therapists who had their offices off the waiting room, and I honestly don’t know a thing about the other therapists.  They were all female.  All young and trendy.

Now I say penthouse.  It had a skylight.  Nice, eh?  And it was very sunny, with tables and such, where you could sit down and have your lunch, or sit and read or something, and it would be dead quiet, no stupid radio or anything, and not too many magazines or crossword puzzle magazines or Highlights for Children or diabetes magazines or anything like that.

One weird thing was that for many months, she’d keep out a bowl of nuts.  Sometimes, they’d be in the shell (without a nutcracker) and sometimes, they’d be the shelled kind.  An eating disorders therapist?  Sometimes, she’d even have weird candies in these bowls, but usually, there would be nuts.  I always thought this might be a problem since a lot of her clients had eating issues.

I always appreciated that she had tea bags and a water kettle there.  And also, a water dispenser, you know, those water bottles that dispense bottled water (even though we all know bottled water is kind of a waste).  I would always get the water hot for her so she could have tea.  I thought it was nice for me to do her this favor.  It always pissed me off that there were not enough caffeinated tea bags among the many varieties of tea there, but that was okay.  If I searched long enough, I could find something that I was okay with.  These were usually called things like “Yoga tea,” shit like that.

She did not have cream or lemon for the tea, but she had some sort of stevia or something like that, which I do not put in tea anyway.  Sometimes, I brought my own tea bags just for the heck of it.  I got sick of hers.

There were two bathrooms, one adjacent to the other.  It was cold in both bathrooms.  Every time I went to see her, I’d use the bathroom beforehand so that I wouldn’t have to interrupt the session if I had to pee.  So wouldn’t you know it, M thought I was throwing up in there before every session, even though I established early on that I do not do this.  I also asked her to speak with my previous therapist, N, who probably had told her the same darned thing, I am not even capable of making myself vomit.  This was a never-ending battle between us, M accusing me of lying to her.

So now let me get to her office.  You’d walk in there and there would be the overwhelming odor of this awful potpourri.  I mean, aren’t people allergic to that stuff?  It reeked in her office.  So for all I knew, she herself was throwing up in the wastebasket and covering up the odor with the potpourri.  And damn scarves everywhere.  These were used for psychodrama.  And freaking stuffed animals.

Now folks, as soon as I saw those damned stuffed animals I should have known to run in the opposite direction and keep on running. Any therapist that has stuffed animals, stay away.  Because unless this is a children’s therapist, there should not be children’s toys in the therapist’s office, right?

But this therapist, she kept on encouraging me to talk to the damn animals.  No, I did not want to talk to any damned stuffed animals or make up pretend games with them, but she insisted.  It was idiotic, I’d say.

This was how she manipulated her patients, playing pretend games.  She’d make up games and get her patients to cry.  And then she’d tell them she had all the answers, and say she was their savior and could help them out of their misery, but only if they carefully followed her instructions and worshiped her like she was a god.  If her patients screwed up, it was their fault for not following her, of course, or for being unfaithful to her.

This is how manipulative therapists work.  You think they have all the answers.  You think they are gods.  You think they are the greatest and that they can save you.  You think they are the one and only.  The truth is, you are addicted to them and they are killing you.

You want oh so much to please this therapist, but no matter how hard you try, you can’t, because this therapist will never be quite pleased with you.  You are not trying hard enough.  You are not doing well enough.  You need more therapy.  You are sick.

No, it’s not your fault.  The therapist did this to you, and brought you into this situation.  The therapist needs you just as much as you need the therapist.  These abusive therapists feed off of your need.  That’s why they get into fields like eating disorders, because people with eating disorders have body issues, so there’s a lot of control going on, such as weekly weigh ins, food journals, and the like.  Your therapist will insist on knowing everything you eat, what you weigh, what you do for exercise, everything about your life.  This is a control freak at work.

No, not all “eating disorders specialists” are like this.  Most aren’t.  But this therapist, M, was.  I do know others who were harmed by her.

Oh, I do need to mention the “crack.”  I know I’ve mentioned it on here before, but no profile of M can be complete without mentioning her style of dress.  That crack between the boobs always had to be showing.  Always.  Never fail.  Now is this entirely appropriate for ANY therapist to show this crack?  I mean, now and then, maybe occasionally, but every single freaking time that darned crack HAD to be showing?  I think it was compulsive on her part.  Either that or her boobs were so big that every which way she dressed, the darned crack kept showing.  But I don’t think so.  I mean, I’m a rape victim, and I know how to cover up, it’s possible to cover that darned crack without too much effort and I’m telling you, she made an effort to show off the darned crack.

I have to give her credit for not showing the ass crack.  Now that would not be okay, would it?

Are you cracking up yet?  I hope so.  See ya later, alligators.

Two local community health centers have NO therapists who know anything about eating disorders

Yes, I have asked.   I was just on the phone with one of them and told flat out no, they would not even bother putting me on their waiting list.  They had no one on their roster that knew anything about eating disorders.  And this is a community center that has a lot of young clientele.  Say what?

Oh please.  No wonder there are so many suicides and suicide attempts in the high schools.

I guess you are supposed to be rich and have private insurance or something.

I told them, “Well, this is why so many people with eating disorders die.” And I hung up.

I am telling you, I am going to do something about this someday.

What has been going on with me

I guess it was mid-April.  A lady at church insulted me real bad and after that I decided the whole world could go fuck itself.  I stopped eating completely.  I figured I might as well get as skinny as I could and then see what happened.  Well, I don’t know.  The whole marathon thing, hadn’t eaten for days.  Bad to worse.  I saw my mom, that was fucked.  I had blackouts and everything. Not even knowing where I was or remembering having done things or what had happened, days going by.  I think it was low blood sugar.  My feet turned blue and my hair fell out and I had this dead skin thing that’s gone now and I abused laxatives real bad a bunch of times.  Between the 25th and 28th or 29th, I ate an inhuman amount of food and gained 30% of my body weight.  I’ve binged in blackouts, too.  Then I considered killing myself but obviously I’m still alive.  After that, lost time, all in a blackout.  I know I was impacted and had to clear myself out…kinda gross.  Been in sorta a dream for a week after that, not sure, more low blood sugar and stuff and my feet turning blue again.  My legs and feet blew up so bad that I sometimes I won’t go out for days, obviously folks are gonna look at me funny cuz I look so fat.  A few days ago I got lost on the street.  I know I fell once.  Some people saw me but I scrambled up real fast and said I was okay.

So they told me in the 1980’s that this was a minor disorder.  Put me low on the priority list.  Oh yeah.  That doctor is dead and I am still alive, glory halleluiah.

Really sick go back to bed now love my dog

I need something warm to drink then I’m going back to bed I’m going to hug Puzzle and cry some more.  I’m freezing.   A lot of people with this disorder die, and their families insist on “privacy.”  Well, fuck that.  I told my minister no “privacy” no matter what my family says.  If I die, it sure ain’t gonna be no freak heart attack.  There’s nothing wrong with my heart.  If I die, I hope it is blasted all over the damn city, all over the Boston Globe (does the Boston Globe still exist?) and all over the online papers and everywhere all over the damn planet.  It will help people to know what I have been through, what I have suffered with.  I want a damn autopsy, whatever it is.  So many people die of stomach rupture an nobody even knows it happens, no one even finds out.  They die in a fucking binge, they die in hell, and no one even knows.  The coroner says it’s a heart attack because the person isn’t given an autopsy.  Fuck.

Back before Karen Carpenter died, I was told I was given low priority because I had a minor disorder and schiz and bipolar were far more serious.  The psychiatrist cancelled the appointment I had with him and put me off seven times (this is in my book).  I guess he saw no money in it.  There is still no money being put into it.  Far more research is going into breast cancer, I guess.  Everyone loves you if you get breast cancer.  That’s the one I should get.  Then people would give me their phone number and beg me to call them and I could have a human conversation.  Imagine that.


Step on a crack, break your mother’s back

Oh sure, there are certain thing I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.  But maybe I would wish them on people that done me wrong in times past.

You know, like, revenge.

So, I do, occasionally, wish bad things would happen to people like that.  Silly little thoughts cross my mind.

What is YOUR worst nightmare?  Admit it.  That one day, you wake up FAT.

Okay, anyone that ever looked down on me, you got it.

To my dear most wonderful most awesome brothers and sisters with eating disorders all over the world

I want to say right now from the bottom of my heart I love you all.

I wouldn’t be here right now if it weren’t for you.


I feel like there’s this wall around me and the world.  Folks around me don’t know what to say to me.  They look at me and they make false assumptions.

They assume things about people who are stuck on “disability” that are not true.

The assume that because I am thin, I am not “recovered.”  Why are they basing their assumption on my appearance?  Do I judge others on their appearance?

Some people are afraid to get close to me.  They are afraid to be friends with people who have a history of “mental health problems.”

Many people are resentful of the fact that I got better on my own.  However, that’s what it boils down to.  Humans will fail you.

Even the best therapists and nutritionists get laid off, get burnt out, drop dead, or retire.  Please don’t rely on these people.  Learn to rely on yourself.

People who are now around you, such as the person you now call your “best friend,” in ten years will most likely not be in your life.  Chances are the folks in your life now, most of them in a year will be gone.  New people will replace them.  There is a cycling of humans.  It is probable that in ten years you will be living in another location.  You will still be yourself, and you won’t look the same, but you will be much wiser.

Perhaps a beloved dog or cat or other pet will travel with you.  Such a blessing this is.


People with eating disorders, I love it when I get a message from one of you encouraging me to go on with it all.  Keep going, folks, and I will, too.


An awesome site on eating disorders by Gwyneth Olwyn, Your Eatopia, link provided many thanks to a contributor

Gwyneth’s site is absolutely amazing.   Readers, you need to take a look.

Here is a link to her main page: 

I am especially impressed with her “about” page.  Here is the link:

These links will both open in a new browser window.

It is about time that someone pointed out the immense amount of research going into breast cancer and the “overweight” problem in the world compared to the pitiful lack of research devoted to restrictive eating.

Of course, we folks with eating disorders have always been painfully aware of this fact.  But Gwyneth spells it out for us.

Gwyneth, you rock.

Thanks to H, commenter on this site and eating disorder sufferer who most generously provided the link.

When I was 19, on the run, and hid in a boat

I suppose I would have done about the same thing.  I was a small kid, only five foot one, so I fit in small places.  I dared to go anywhere.  I wasn’t the type to steal, no, I wasn’t a thief, not me.  I didn’t do drugs or alcohol.  Even though I ended up with an eating disorder later on, I never stole laxatives or diet pills from stores. That would have been too embarrassing to explain. When you’re young and scared, you don’t want anyone to see you.

So I was always the invisible one.  Always one to sneak around unnoticed.  Once, me and this girl and her sister, we slept on a school bus one night.  I drove the car.  I had the keys.  I parked the car, kinda far away from the school bus, or so I remember.  It was my mom’s car.  The car was orange.  What a stupid color.  It’s stupid cuz it’s noticeable and bright. At least it was a Datsun.

So it was my decision.  I say that because I drove the car.  So the one who drives the car, they are the one who decides.  So we spent that night on the school bus.

I was the oldest, too.  I should have known.

In the morning, all the school buses were getting ready.  Ready to pick up school kids and take them to school.  So I said to the girl and her sister, who was perhaps sixteen, or maybe eighteen or nineteen, “Okay, let’s go.  Let’s wake up and get off the bus.”  And so we did.  And we never got caught.

Why did we do it?  Because we thought society had wronged us.  We thought we deserved a break.  Just three sulking kids.  Two in their twenties and one teen.

I can’t speak for the other two.  But I will speak for myself right here right now.

I believe I was twenty-four years old.  I was a scared, lonely and angry kid with a few secrets.  Mostly, I was desperate.  Desperate because I had an eating disorder and couldn’t get adequate care.  I knew the “therapists” who were “treating” me had no clue what they were doing, and were making me worse and worse.  My parents were paying an arm and a leg for this “therapy,” and screaming at me every day, yelling at me and asking why I was not getting better.

So I wonder why a 19-year-old will hide on a boat.  Hey, I been there.