For years I've been keeping a secret to myself that I finally needed to reveal. In order for me to write what I hope will be the next great American novel, there is something that needs to come out first. It's not only a secret but it also will come to a shock to many people who thought they knew everything about me. This is probably one of the hardest blogs that I've ever written but I need to get it out there.... and after several glasses of liquid courage, I'm ready. At least I think so. I know I have the support out there but again, even some of my closest friends have no idea about what they are going to ready---let alone the small amount of family-- who will read this. What scares me are the friends/family who are law enforcement who are going to see this for the first time. I know how it will turn their stomach. I spent a long time in therapy talking about this today and it has been overwhelmingly determined this one event in my life is directly related/connected/controlling my anorexia (to an extent).
In August 2001, I was raped.
It's a sentence that stands alone. It needs no further explanation in my mind but in order to be honest with myself and who I am, I need to finally open about it. I remember the night clearly. I was living in down by the beach after I took the Bar exam and was planning an average night out at the local popular bar. I didn't go alone. I went with someone who I thought was a good friend (clearly she and I no longer speak as I truly learned what a good friend is). We were going to meet a group of people from our Bar Review class. People we had spent hours with over the last two moths. People I trusted.
At the time I was in a self destructive phase. I was convinced I failed the bar (which I did), convinced I lost the man that I loved (which I did) and was out of control with partying. Alcohol has always been my drug of choice because at 5'1" it was an inexpensive way to numb myself from the reality. After a night of downing shots and mixed drinks, I had noticed that my girlfriend was into a guy who was a friend with one of our Bar review class "buddies" so I invited him and his friend back to where we were staying. Our friend, who I'll refer to as the rapist, was someone we had hung out with before. I knew him. I felt safe. I mean, honestly, I always thought whores got raped right? I saw the Accused-- this wasn't like that. How could this possibly happen to me?
Once we got back to the condo, all the drinking hit me hard and I was ready to pass out. I quietly snuck up to a bedroom only to be followed by the rapist moments later. There I was, practically passed out on the bed and he walks in-- asking to "snuggle." Yeah- whatever., Knock yourself out. I'd been alone with him before so what the fuck was the big deal. Clearly I was not prepared for what was about to happen.
There I was, lying on the bed with the Golden Girls playing on Lifetime in the background when he walked in..... Did I know he liked me? Yup. Did I think he'd act on it? No. I was "dating" one of our mutual friends at so the why would he ever put a move on me. Naive = Me. I was lying there next to him, moments from passing out when he rolled on top of me and started to kiss me. I kissed him back thinking, how far can this go? He's annihilated. A kiss may be enough and may just show him how uninterested I was in him. Besides he seemed sweet enough and wasn't very aggressive in pursuing this crush that he had. I was so fucking wrong,
Next thing I knew, he was holding back my arms with one hand and trying to unbutton my jeans with the other hand. It was surreal. An out of body experience. Almost as though I was floating in the air and looking down. I struggled and said no. His response? "It's ok because I really like you and I know you like me too." Yeah, I did like him.... as a friend. I really didn't want to have sex with him. It was not what I wanted and I keep saying no, please stop. The only response I remember from him was, "No, really, it's ok, I like you."
At this point my law school background came into play. After what seemed like an hour of struggling (which was probably more like 5 minutes), I asked him to at least wear a condom. At that point I knew I was fucked both literally and figuratively. Instantly a case popped into my head where I read a man was acquitted of rape charges because the victim asked him to wear a condom which meant she had enough time to try and stop him..... or fight harder. But I'm 5'1"...... and I was so drunk.... and he was so strong...... so, I just laid there. I decided that I no longer had a choice. I had no strength or energy to fight him off.
In the back of my head, I decided that I clearly deserved this considering I let him back to my house, drunk, knowing he liked me and then allowed him to kiss me. If I had time to ask him to where a condom, then obviously I had the ability to fight him off. But, I didn't. I remember lying there, his body on top of me, pumping away until he was satisfied. I put on what was left of my torn panties and went downstairs to get my girlfriend. I told her, "X just raped me. They need to go." Within second he and his friend had been kicked out --- not knowing why and acting confused like I had just lost MY mind. What the fuck? You just fucking forced me to have sex and you DON"T KNOW WHY I AM KICKING YOU GUYS OUT???????
There was no I'm sorry, From anyone. My girlfriend and I stayed up a few hours..... talking about what happened and decided we needed to call our friend who was a prosecutor before we made another move. Secretly, we both knew from a legal stand point I was screwed. I was drunk, allowed him back to the house and stopped him long enough to put on a condom. The jury was going to see I had an opportunity to protect myself.... but FUCK them because unless you've been in that situation you have no fucking idea. I'm all about equality between men and women but the reality is, men are stronger than women--- especially when the woman is only 5'1".
After talking to my friend, I knew I was fucked. I would be crucified. So, in what I consider to be one of the biggest mistakes of my life, I didn't press charges. There are times I wonder if he did it again-- to another girl. If so, I can't help but blame myself. I may have been able to prevent it. Instead, he is practicing law and is an unregistered sex offender and will never have to admit to the mistake he made. Sadly, he's still alive. Sadly, I'm still living it.
I've pushed this secret deep into the dark bowels of my soul so why write about it now? Well, I need to move past my past. I need to move past my anorexia. All of these moments are directly tied to my self worth, self esteem and ability to move forward. I need to purge these thoughts and stop hiding behind them. Set myself free from the incarceration of this secret. There are people who are so close to me and have been friends of mind for years and will be reading about this for the first time but it's a chapter in my life I need to close in order to bring me closer to regaining the self esteem and self worth I lost 10 years ago this month.
I don't know if this accomplished much but it's out there. I can't take it back--- but I don't want to because I want to get better, For years I blamed myself for what happened to me.... maybe I sent the wrong signals.... maybe I was a promiscuous whore.... maybe I should have been more alert and sober.... the maybes could go on forever. At the end of the day, I was raped. By someone I thought was a friend. Nothing will ever change and along with the anorexia, it will be something I need to work on because I refuse to stuff these feelings down for another 10 years. It's time. Time to deal with the trauma I ignored for so long.
It's the year of me..... and the biggest part of this year leaving my past where it belongs.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Friday, August 19, 2011
One Bite At A Time
When we last saw the princess, it was a dark and stormy night..... She was seeking shelter in an old run down castle deep into the forest.... As she opened the creaky wooden doors, she saw a bright light. She hoped that bright light was the treasure she had been searching for this whole time. The princess lightly crept towards the glistening sparkle with trepidation but as she came closer, she realized it truly was what she had been seeking. ....and she lived happily ever after.
BULLSHIT. Life is not a fairy tale. Life sucks. I put on my big girl panties and went off to treatment for my "disease" only to learn..... NOTHING. I'm still being classified as EDNOS (eating disorder not otherwise specified) because I'm not quite there yet to be considered anorexic. Okay. Whatever helps you sleep at night, but I'll still with anorexic because it's easier to explain..... I didn't want to go and I cried in the car all the way there. This was now my second venture into a psychiatric outpatient treatment program in 3 months. How the fuck did I get here? How was it that I was truly an anorexic and getting treatment? Was I really going into fucking rehab? Yup.
I fully expected this trip to be as easy peasy as the first one but 15 minutes into the morning I knew I was settling in to Gitmo on Guantanamo Bay. I avoided writing anything about my time there because I wasn't ready. I didn't want to think about that place while I was away from it. I still don't like thinking about it. The women in the group were great-- supportive and understanding. The rest? Well, no. Most of them sucked. I essentially went someplace every day to have someone babysit me while I ate. I may have learned a little about nutrition but I learned nothing about the affects of this disease on my body, how to counteract a negative thought and/or body image, how get through each day trying to eat... The list could go on and on about what I didn't learn.
Everyone else seems happy because I continue to eat but I can see the relapse. It within my reach. Something that would have been helpful to learn? Not wanting to make that reach. I still have absolutely no desire to eat. Now that I'm on my own doing this, I have resorted to setting an alarm on my cell phone to remind me to eat (it's gone off 4 times since I've been writing and I keep pressing snooze-- clearly that's not helping either). I am eating 3 meals a day but my portions are getting smaller and smaller. It really is only a matter of time for me to get back to where I was.... but, my fear of residential treatment is keeping me from skipping meals. If I get back on the train, the next stop is Renfrew and I don't want to go there.
I'm trying to put on a brave face. There are people in my life who are bursting with love and support. They are beyond proud of me. It's great. I'm lucky to have support because I met so many women that didn't have any support at all. My biggest supporter is/was/will be my husband but LiLi is there for me emotionally in a way he can't be. I have the best of both worlds. I truly do. But..... I don't want to eat. I still really honestly don't have the desire.
I know it's lunch time but no one is here.... no one is watching me.... I had breakfast.... I could skip lunch and no one would know. Not a soul. It's so tempting. My first weekend in treatment, I was home about to eat my first breakfast without supervision. I measured everything out and started to cry. I sat on the floor, crying, looking at the GINORMOUS bowl of Cheerios I had to eat. How was I going to do it? My husband came in the house and found me on the floor. He picked me up, sat me down, put the food in front of me and started a conversation about something else entirely. So that's how I did it, one bite at a time.
Sitting here alone while my daughter naps, and my alarm keeps going off, I have an inner struggle and debate on what I should do. Soon, she'll wake up and my focus and attention will be on her and I won't eat. I have a small window to make the right decision but it's so hard. I still cannot get the food down when I'm alone. It was definitely easier eating with a group of women battling eating disorders. I miss them.... but I sure as hell don't miss the escorted trips to the bathroom, being confined to one room all day, not being allowed to leave the room for any reason except to go to the bathroom. I don't know.... sounds like prison to me,
My struggle is getting worse. I have to eat, I know I do. But when you aren't hungry, it's so hard to find something to eat. While I was in rehab, we did meal planning everyday off of a menu. That was easy but now, I need to think about what I am going to eat and it all makes me so tired. I am so fucking tired of thinking about food. I wish people would stop telling me how great I look too..... what does that mean? I look great because I put on weight? is that it? I have no idea what I weigh. There are no scales in my house and I have convinced myself that I've gained 10 pounds, if not more. I guess that's an "irrational thought." Um, ok. Fuck you then.
I'm glad I went because it made everyone happy but I don't feel better. If I was better, I would have stopped typing when the alarm went off to eat, but I didn't. I just want to sit here and cry because I'm so not hungry. The thought of eating actually makes me physically ill. I honestly just don't give a fuck anymore--- but the perfectionist in me is telling me to eat--- to finish what I started--- DON'T BE A QUITTER.
So what does that mean? It means I'm going to go and have lunch. FML.
BULLSHIT. Life is not a fairy tale. Life sucks. I put on my big girl panties and went off to treatment for my "disease" only to learn..... NOTHING. I'm still being classified as EDNOS (eating disorder not otherwise specified) because I'm not quite there yet to be considered anorexic. Okay. Whatever helps you sleep at night, but I'll still with anorexic because it's easier to explain..... I didn't want to go and I cried in the car all the way there. This was now my second venture into a psychiatric outpatient treatment program in 3 months. How the fuck did I get here? How was it that I was truly an anorexic and getting treatment? Was I really going into fucking rehab? Yup.
I fully expected this trip to be as easy peasy as the first one but 15 minutes into the morning I knew I was settling in to Gitmo on Guantanamo Bay. I avoided writing anything about my time there because I wasn't ready. I didn't want to think about that place while I was away from it. I still don't like thinking about it. The women in the group were great-- supportive and understanding. The rest? Well, no. Most of them sucked. I essentially went someplace every day to have someone babysit me while I ate. I may have learned a little about nutrition but I learned nothing about the affects of this disease on my body, how to counteract a negative thought and/or body image, how get through each day trying to eat... The list could go on and on about what I didn't learn.
Everyone else seems happy because I continue to eat but I can see the relapse. It within my reach. Something that would have been helpful to learn? Not wanting to make that reach. I still have absolutely no desire to eat. Now that I'm on my own doing this, I have resorted to setting an alarm on my cell phone to remind me to eat (it's gone off 4 times since I've been writing and I keep pressing snooze-- clearly that's not helping either). I am eating 3 meals a day but my portions are getting smaller and smaller. It really is only a matter of time for me to get back to where I was.... but, my fear of residential treatment is keeping me from skipping meals. If I get back on the train, the next stop is Renfrew and I don't want to go there.
I'm trying to put on a brave face. There are people in my life who are bursting with love and support. They are beyond proud of me. It's great. I'm lucky to have support because I met so many women that didn't have any support at all. My biggest supporter is/was/will be my husband but LiLi is there for me emotionally in a way he can't be. I have the best of both worlds. I truly do. But..... I don't want to eat. I still really honestly don't have the desire.
I know it's lunch time but no one is here.... no one is watching me.... I had breakfast.... I could skip lunch and no one would know. Not a soul. It's so tempting. My first weekend in treatment, I was home about to eat my first breakfast without supervision. I measured everything out and started to cry. I sat on the floor, crying, looking at the GINORMOUS bowl of Cheerios I had to eat. How was I going to do it? My husband came in the house and found me on the floor. He picked me up, sat me down, put the food in front of me and started a conversation about something else entirely. So that's how I did it, one bite at a time.
Sitting here alone while my daughter naps, and my alarm keeps going off, I have an inner struggle and debate on what I should do. Soon, she'll wake up and my focus and attention will be on her and I won't eat. I have a small window to make the right decision but it's so hard. I still cannot get the food down when I'm alone. It was definitely easier eating with a group of women battling eating disorders. I miss them.... but I sure as hell don't miss the escorted trips to the bathroom, being confined to one room all day, not being allowed to leave the room for any reason except to go to the bathroom. I don't know.... sounds like prison to me,
My struggle is getting worse. I have to eat, I know I do. But when you aren't hungry, it's so hard to find something to eat. While I was in rehab, we did meal planning everyday off of a menu. That was easy but now, I need to think about what I am going to eat and it all makes me so tired. I am so fucking tired of thinking about food. I wish people would stop telling me how great I look too..... what does that mean? I look great because I put on weight? is that it? I have no idea what I weigh. There are no scales in my house and I have convinced myself that I've gained 10 pounds, if not more. I guess that's an "irrational thought." Um, ok. Fuck you then.
I'm glad I went because it made everyone happy but I don't feel better. If I was better, I would have stopped typing when the alarm went off to eat, but I didn't. I just want to sit here and cry because I'm so not hungry. The thought of eating actually makes me physically ill. I honestly just don't give a fuck anymore--- but the perfectionist in me is telling me to eat--- to finish what I started--- DON'T BE A QUITTER.
So what does that mean? It means I'm going to go and have lunch. FML.
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