Psychobabble: Making Sense of Insanity

Dear Ana (25),

Good job talking about that thing.

Except maybe when you say “I don’t want to be melodramatic and emo and wax poetic,” you should maybe stop instead of continuing to do just that.

Yes, that was all super not great (huge understatement, I know). Yes, it quite often makes the present super not great as well. But, still. Knock it off.

I don’t know why I’m being so insensitive.

I guess I just think writing about that whole experience in that way is kind of pathetic and asking people to feel sorry for you or comment on how artistically you captured your suffering.

It’s just annoying, if you ask me. So cut it out.

I really don’t want to be mean, it’s just that you keep getting hung up over the same thing over and over again. Like today, you had to take the bus and you kept remembering that time when you were on the bus while you were “falling” and some not so great stuff happened (another understatement).

I think dwelling on it and making it seem larger than it is by romanticizing it just makes everything worse.

Just be simple and direct. No fancy stuff.

Maybe I’m also saying this because I don’t want you to keep diving into that stuff.

It’s pretty dark in there. I’m kind of creeped out by the idea that the crazy person you became is somehow locked up in your subconscious just waiting for the perfect moment to seize control and ruin our life again.

If I’m in here, isn’t she in here, too?

This is super creepy, but I feel like whoever that person was resembled Cookie Monster (11) in a LOT of ways. She was hyper, bubbly, all over the place, annoying, difficult, stubborn. Maybe that was her coming out to “play” after being locked up for so long.

This is just psychobabble nonsense, of course.

Please ignore me and write this all off. I just want to make sense of this, even if my explanation is ridiculous. A stupid hypothesis like this belongs in a psychological thriller than has absolutely no basis in reality and knows nothing about how psychology actually works.

However, as much as I just want to write the whole thing off as chemicals in our brain going haywire, that just doesn’t seem to capture it all.

I feel like there’s more to it. Some people would argue otherwise, but I feel like there’s more to who I am than a bunch of neurons firing here and there.

Some pretty weird stuff happened during that stint, and I don’t want to write it down because it definitely will make us sound completely insane. It kind of made me believe in some stupid spiritual stuff that I would never say aloud.

I feel embarrassed that I still think some of the things I experienced were true rather than just hallucinations or delusions.

Haven’t people said that a lot of people who did cool stuff were technically mentally ill? Or am I just saying that to make myself feel better because I’m the opposite of a person who does cool stuff because of everything that’s happened?

I’m getting annoyed with myself now, so that’s the end of this letter.

I might be even worse than you when it comes to talking about that stuff.

Cheers,

Twenty (20)

P.S.

Should we maybe talk to Twenty-Two (22)? or Twenty-Two Point Five (22.5)? I seriously don’t want to go anywhere near that, but we are doing this project for a reason. This is supposed to be uncomfortable and perhaps a little weird and scary sometimes. Please just wait until I can find a bomb shelter to hide in before you start.

 

Falling: Descent into Madness

Dear Twenty (20) and Fifteen (15),

You’re right that I should talk about that thing I don’t want to talk about.

I don’t even know where to begin.

It’s just an endless pit, like where the shelf of an ocean floor drops off and you can just go down down down forever.

There is no bottom to this Fall. I just keep falling. Deeper and deeper. Then I wake up and see the debris all around of what was my life and there is nothing but blank white shock and horror.

And then I sink even further.

Down into the blackness. Let it swallow me up. It’s like sludge. Like a swampy swamp. I never want to go out. I pray every night that I won’t wake up in the morning. I just want everything to be over. I don’t want to be here anymore

I don’t even remember most of it. Just snippets.

I don’t even know if everything I remember is true.

I remember how it felt, though. The euphoric highs, the maniacal laughter, the terror, the paranoia, the debilitating sadness, the confusion, the anger, the rage. Sometimes I don’t know the specifics, but always remember how they made me feel. That will be etched onto my being forever.

I don’t want to be melodramatic and emo and wax poetic about this.

I’ll stop beating around the bush. In simple and direct terms: I had a psychotic break and a manic episode, and then fell into the deepest state of depression I have ever experienced.

Just writing that makes me feel dirty and empty.

I don’t want to write anymore. I just feel so tired and so sad.

So many people left after that.

My own brother didn’t talk to me for months, although that’s not saying much considering how much he dislikes me. People left not only because they didn’t want to know me anymore, but also because I pushed them away. I was so ashamed. I didn’t want anyone to see me.

The ones who left thought this was the big reveal of who I was.

That I had been lying this whole time and pretending to be who I wasn’t so they would like me. Maybe that was partially true, but I feel like it wasn’t on purpose.

I’ve had to hide major parts of my life because it’s no one’s business what I struggle with and it would scare them off if I told them.

If someone asks why I graduated three years late, I tell them I was volunteering and “soul-searching” after I decided to change my major. In reality, I was in treatment centers and I didn’t decide to change my major, I gave up because I just couldn’t do it anymore. I picked something easy and useless just so I could get my diploma.

I’m used to hiding myself and pretending to be someone I’m not.

And I think it’s common to maybe shift your behavior a tiny bit to make people like you more. Maybe I do that more than others and to a larger degree, but it’s mostly because I’m just insecure and not because I’m plotting to do something malicious. It makes me feel sneaky and gross sometimes, as well as depressed – I figure most “friends” wouldn’t like me if they knew who I really was.

But I don’t want to find out if they would or would not like me. I don’t like people knowing.

I don’t like people feeling sorry for me, knowing my weakness, having something they could use to blackmail me or share with other people who deserve to know even less than they already do.

Some people like to kick you while you’re down.

Like those sadists who worked at the hospital. I don’t want to talk about them. Maybe some other time when I don’t feel so sick to my stomach.

I just don’t like people anymore. I don’t like them.

People are capable of horrible things when they think you’re too far gone to realize what they’re doing is wrong, and if you do realize and tell someone, no one would believe your word over theirs. It’s in these situations that the filth of humanity come out of the woodworks and crawl all over you, leaving behind a trail of slime that makes you unable to feel clean ever again no matter how many hours you spend scrubbing your skin raw.

I don’t want to be around people. People are not inherently good.

They seek out weakness so they can take advantage of it. I just want to stay inside where no one can see me, no one can touch me, no one can hurt me. I don’t want people to see. I don’t want people to see. I don’t want people to see.

Everyone saw.

And now I just want to disappear.

No matter how far and fast I run, everything always catches up with me.

Because I can never leave behind myself. And this self keeps getting bigger and heavier everyday, drawing eyes and attention. I just want to melt away into the background. I just want to be alone.

I am already so alone but it doesn’t feel alone enough. It also feels too alone sometimes.

I need to just end this letter. I talked about it, how was that? Now I just feel disgusting. It’s like purging, but when it splashes everywhere. Vomit on the floor, on the walls, in my hair, on my face, all over my clothes. I can smell it in my nose for hours and feel the burn at the back of my throat.

I’m just so incredibly sad. It’s a grief that has no bottom.

I just keep sinking into it and I can’t get out.

Are you guys happy now? I hope that was entertaining for you to read. You’re welcome.

Ana (25)

Salt: Wounds of the Inner Critic

Dear Twenty (20) and Ana (25),

I don’t know what to write. I just feel embarrassed. I feel like a bad person.

I do judge too much. I am unreasonable and mean. I find people’s wounds and then grind salt into them. I like seeing other people finally realize how worthless and mediocre they are. That look people get when they fall to pieces makes my heart swell.

I think it’s because I’ve had to sit here and watch you two burn my success to the ground.

I’ve watched everything that I worked so hard for get stripped away. I’ve seen people look down on you, belittle you, patronize you, boss you around. That’s my job, no one else gets to do that. I want to punch all of them in the face and then kick them a million times while they’re down.

You were going to do what your mom does.

With her job, she doesn’t have a boss, she can quit and find a new job in an instant because she’s in high demand. All I would have to do to get that is work hard and then I could be an independent woman like her, not relying on anyone, demanding respect, untouchable.

Now, I am just a pathetic person who graduated three years late with a major that cannot get her any kind of job and gives her no qualifications.

I am a useless person, a waste of space, unwanted.

I wanted to be like my mom. In high demand. Useful. Wanted. And above all else, respected. I can’t stand people laughing at me, looking down on me, thinking I’m a joke.

I wanted that so badly. I still want that. Ana, you say you want to go back to school and make that a reality. Give yourself, all of us, a do-over. But why is there just a feeling of tiredness? I’m hoping this new job will force us up and out and back in the saddle. But what if it just runs us ragged? You’re not qualified, so they’re throwing you a bone and will constantly be critiquing you, the hours are long, the pay is abysmal, the work itself is beyond stressful, and it’s the last thing in the world you want to do.

However, after the Fall, working two jobs is what dragged you out of the depths.

You worked 7 days a week, not a single day off. You also wrote. A lot. 2,000 words in the morning and 2,000 at night. You made yourself get up early and you wouldn’t go to sleep until it was done. You have it in you. You can do this if you want it. There is nothing stopping you.

Even if this plan fails spectacularly, I would rather try and fail than not try at all.

OK, this is getting long so I’ll wrap it up.

Please talk about that thing you’re avoiding.

You know the one. You’re driving all of us nuts. I say that with love.

Fifteen (15)

P.S.

I want this to be the last “P.S.” ever. These are so annoying and stupid.

Gasoline: Igniting Insanity

Dear Fifteen (15),

I don’t want to write this.

I’ve been procrastinating writing this the whole night and now it’s 3am and I only got 4 hours of sleep last night so I am done. I am so done.

Can you please just leave me alone?

I get it. I partied, I was a slut, I drank, I got high, I turned us into (a super hot, am I right?) bag of skin and bones, I threw everything away. I tried to be everything and ended up being nothing but on medical leave yet again and back into a treatment center.

Things were never the same after that.

I get it. You hate me, Ana (25) hates me. Everyone hates me. I’m the stupid screw-up that didn’t appreciate what she had, and now it’s all gone and we’ll never get it back. I’m the reason why everything is terrible.

I’m too tired to get into this, so I’ll just say this: that’s not fair.

This isn’t all me. This whole show got started forever ago when Cookie (11) started stealing cookies, and got worse when you (15) started trying to be a perfectionist and started purging. There are so many things that get lost in the time between each of us, but don’t just put me in a box and shame me.

I am so tired of that. Please just stop.

And even if I was the whole reason why everything is terrible, what is making me feel horrible accomplishing?

It’s a good thing I’m tired right now because I can skip all the mean things I want to say to make you feel just as bad as you make me feel. You’ve also just made me so sad that I probably couldn’t fight back if I wanted to.

You’re smart. You figured out how to get good grades in less than a year and got us out of that house and that school with nothing but sheer determination. You are amazing.

But I am also amazing.

I was able to hard-core party on the weekends, be a serious high-powered student during the week juggling two advanced science classes (both with 3.5 hour labs) and a foreign language class contemplating a double major, binge and then throw up all the time (sometimes multiple times a day), pull all-nighters right and left to makeup for all the partying I did on the weekends, pump myself full of all sorts of substances to pull it off, be super devious in order to get all those substances in the first place, be in an orchestral society and also be its web mistress, work in a research lab, run an Etsy business, be on the organization committee for a major multi-college fundraising event, and knit a bunch of things for another community service organization. That’s all I can remember off the top of my head.

You want to tell me I’m just a stupid skank partying it up and throwing everything away? Read that list and tell me that I’m not awesome and on the brink of being superhuman.

Yes, I was high on the new experience of finally figuring out how to dress and do my hair and makeup and throw up enough to make myself “hot.” I had never been that before, and after so many painful years of being the opposite of that, I was sucked in.

At first, it was thrilling. I was leading a double life, having it all. Then things started to splinter and by the end of the semester, I was barely hanging on by a thread.

I didn’t know things were going to get so bad.

I didn’t realize that if I tried to have it all, I would lose everything. I didn’t know. You guys telling me I’m horrible and stupid and unbelievable because I didn’t know the future is really unfair.

I would give anything to reverse this all and go back to that semester. I would cut back, make my goals reasonable, be healthier, tone it down a bit, focus on what really mattered, which was being a student at that amazing school and building connecting with my amazing classmates. I miss those guys so much. I wouldn’t have had to leave this second time and then a third time and spend my senior year locked up in my room alone because I didn’t know anyone else and was way older than everyone and just ashamed of myself and terrified people would find out what had happened.

But honestly, if I was given another crack at it, I don’t know if things would have turned out differently.

The whole thing was already on fire, I just dumped some gasoline on it to speed it all up and make it explode.

And what does this going back and thinking of what I would have done differently really accomplish? Nothing. We can’t go back.

And you know what? I am so happy that we are not this person who thinks she’s invincible and throws things away thinking she can get them back. I am so glad that we are humble and value things and count our blessings when we remember to not wallow in self-pity and hide from the world. I think that was only possible because of this downward spiral followed by “the fall” that happened the next year.

We should talk about that, by the way. Someday.

You guys just seem to skip over that whole thing because no one wants to poke the sleeping beast and wake that mess up again. In case you’re forgetting, that is probably 99% of the reason why we are here. Yes, I didn’t help and maybe made it more likely to happen, but you’ve got to stop shoveling everything onto me.

We have to talk about it. Because this isn’t fair. I’m just as terrified to open up that can of worms, but we need to get it over with. I’m tired. We’re all tired. This needs to end.

This is long and rambling and I just want to delete it all and start over, but I’m tired. It’s now past 3am and I just want to go to bed. So you’re just going to have to put up with this disorganized jumble of words. And me probably bolding things too much. I’m trying to get better at that.

Just stop acting like you’re so much better than me, than Ana.

You only criticize and never look beyond our imperfections to our strengths. Ana and I have our faults, but we are both incredibly strong, hard-working, and amazing.

You are, too. There is so much more to you than your imperfections.

Your perfectionism is what gets you out of that school and out of that house, but it also is driving you crazy. You are eating until you feel sick, hiding in your closet crying and hurting yourself. You guinea pig is your only friend in the world. You don’t go outside. You’re afraid of people seeing you.

There’s something going on that isn’t working, Fifteen.

You are incredible, but you haven’t figured everything out. Sitting on the sidelines criticizing yourself and criticizing us for not meeting your unrealistic standards isn’t fair.

So please, just be respectful if you can’t be nice.

I love you to death, but you are making me so depressed. Don’t go cry in your closet – I still want you around. I just can’t take you dousing me non-stop with all this criticism and hatred.

I am just so tired.

Please.

Take care of yourself.

This hurts so much when you do this to me, I cannot imagine what it feels like when you do this to yourself.

Love,

Twenty (20)

P.S.

Dear Reader,

My brain is full of sludge and I am so sleep deprived. Go think of your own question. Maybe we should just get rid of the P.S. section altogether. And we need names. I just need sleep. Ana is going to hate me in the morning when she reads all the words I’ve just vomited onto here without rhyme or reason. OK, I’m going to stop now. Goodnight/morning/afternoon wherever you are on the planet.

Forcefield: Love is Stronger than Hate

Dear Fifteen* (15),

(*I swear I’m working on names.)

This is my third attempt at writing this letter.

I know I’m not supposed to edit, but this isn’t really editing. It’s just scraping the entire thing (twice) because it feels inauthentic or defensive or whatever.

Your letter brought up a lot of stuff and I want to react to it.

I want to lecture you and belittle you right back.

But what will that accomplish? I don’t want to start a war. Let’s just talk, please. I am so tired of this. I’m tired of thinking up comebacks and ways to sneakily get you to do what I want. You are smart and there’s no way I’ll be able to do either of those things effectively. It would just make you even angrier and give you more reasons to not want to work with me.

That’s all I want: us working together.

I don’t know why this happens, why we binge, but I think we can figure it out together. That’s why I’m not fighting back and being the “adult” around here. That approach has never worked. The only thing that works is getting everyone on board voluntarily and willingly. If I threaten and bribe and plead, it will only work for a little while, if at all.

I just can’t do that anymore. I am so done with that.

That’s why I’m “letting” the bingeing happen. I’m trying something new. I’m letting all this happen and seeing what comes up. Squashing the bingeing shuts down the conversation, as I observed with Twenty. When she stopped bingeing, I lost interest in what she had to say because all I cared about was the bingeing, not her.

I care an incredible amount about the bingeing and what it’s doing to both our emotional and physical health. But I care about you more.

And as much as it kills me and feels so wrong to “let” it keep happening, that’s what I’m going to do.

Bingeing is like smoke that makes you all come out from the caves where you were hiding. I’m fumigating up in here, so come on out. This party isn’t going to stop until we talk. I guess that was a threat, but it’s the only card I have to play right now. I just really want to talk.

This is killing me as well. I want to have this new life and put everything behind me.

I want to do so many things, including what you deem impossible: going back to school. I can’t tell you how heartbroken I am when I go to bed with plans to start turning things around and then can’t even get out of bed in the morning to brush my hair. I don’t like looking like this either. I don’t like people seeing this. I really don’t.

But this is who I am right now, and I’m going to be this way and not be ashamed of it.

I’m bingeing and that’s all. I’m not going to tell you guys how bad you are, I’m just going to ask: “Are you sure?”

And no matter how many times you say, “Yes,” I will agree. I will agree even if I cannot find a single thing to wear that fits in this country of tiny people and have to walk around in a potato sack with arm and head holes cut out of it. I am not going to stop. You cannot scare me. I don’t have anything to lose. I’ve already lost everything. I don’t know anyone here. I don’t care what they think or say.

All I care about is us.

We’re also playing a game of chicken. You test me to see if I’ll keep bingeing whenever you ask and won’t get scared no matter how big we get. I’m testing you to see if you’ll finally give up and stop asking because you’re the one who gets scared.

Neither of us are going to “win.” We’re just going to keep eating until we get buried under all this food.

I want it to stop. I know you want it to stop. I’m not going to beg you or try to trick you into cooperating. I don’t need or want cooperation. I want participation. I want you to want this on your own.

I don’t know exactly why this is happening. I have some ideas, but not the whole picture. None of us do. I have a part of it, Twenty has a part of it, and you have a part of it. I’m sure Cookie Monster (11) knows a thing or two, as well.

So I’m not going to beg you or try to trick you.

I’ll agree to your bingeing demands, but you should know you’re only hurting yourself. You’re not hurting me at all. I love myself and all of you and love is so much stronger than all the hatred and anger you are directing towards me. It’s like a forcefield that bounces back all the negativity you throw at me and makes it smack you in the face.

Do you want to hurt yourself?

Because I’ll share with you a drop of wisdom I’ve gained after going through all this. Hurting yourself is not artistic, or tragic, or making a statement. It is nothing. It means nothing, it does nothing, it changes nothing.

You’re not even listening anymore.

You’re shutting the door on me so you can hide in the closet and cry and punch and scratch at yourself and wish you were dead or anywhere else in the world but here. Still waiting for your letter from Hogwarts that never made it into your hands.

Why?

I can’t remember. Why would you do that?

It wasn’t just the food. It was anything but the food.

What was it?

You’re screaming at me to go away, to get out of your room. OK, I’m leaving. I’m not going to tell you, “Well, this is my house,” and make you come out and talk to me.

I am leaving. I won’t drag you out kicking and screaming.

I’ll be drinking tea with Twenty and you’re welcome to join whenever you decide that you want something more than that closet or that food can offer.

Whenever you’re ready.

Love,

Ana (25)

P.S.

Dear Reader,

I also don’t really have a question. Everyone hates these stupid questions.

I also feel like these questions are kind of fake.

Kind of like at the end of an interview when they ask you, “Do you have any questions for us?” and you panic because you were so worried about their questions that you forgot to come up with your own and so you make up something off the top of your head to sound like you did your research before coming and are interested in their company even though you are concentrating so much on looking fascinated by their answer that you’re not actually listening. That kind of fake.

I really don’t intentionally try to be this way, it just happens.

I’m working on it.

 

Lights: Visible Shame

Dear Ana (25) and Twenty (20),

You want a letter? Fine.

I hate both of you.

Yes, you too Twenty. You’re not cool, you’re pathetic. Both of you are.

Wow, that’s so great you guys are going to sit with me in my closet and in the bathroom while I’m eating. You guys are so compassionate and wonderful and I am so grateful that you are finally here, I’ve needed you for so long.

Not.

What the hell, you guys? This behavior is disgusting. I am disgusting. Do you know how embarrassing it is to go out in public looking like this? Do you not feel any mercy at all? I am dying and crumbling into a million pieces every time we go outside looking like this. If I actually really put myself into this body and feel how big it is, I will have a panic attack.

Why have you both undone everything that I worked so hard to create?

I was a terrible student, I was fat, I had no friends, I was miserable. But I worked myself to death so that I could get into that school and I had friends there, real friends for the first time in my life.

But then you, twenty (we seriously need to come up with names, guys), blew that all to hell. Did you forget it was your job to get good grades rather than to get skinny? I am just speechless and don’t even know what to do with you. You’re just too unbelievable.

I worked SO hard for SO long to get us out of that terrible house with those terrible people, and what do you do? Barf until you have to be sent home. Three times.

You’re pathetic. I don’t care if you’re so cool with your parties and skanky clothes and fake friends and boys. You are just pathetic. And needy. And disgusting. I don’t even want to be in the same room as you, so get the hell out of my closet and this bathroom.

As for you, Ana. Again, what the hell? You are supposed to be the adult around here.

If I knew I was going to grow up and become you, I wouldn’t have even tried. The only thing keeping me going was that this was all going to get better, that I would never have to go back to this place of darkness and despair.

And here you are catapulting us back into the thick of things. Back into this smelly disgusting swamp.

You think I’m the swamp? Yeah, hearing that is really going to make me super thankful that you’re here.

And you are so fake, Ana. So incredibly fake.

You’re not sitting here with me because you actually want to, you’re just doing it so that I’ll like you and help you figure out how to stop bingeing. Well, I’m not playing along. You guys have ruined my life, taken away everything that I love and whatever tiny shred of self-respect that I once had for myself. You have made me a joke, a failure, a disappointment. I feel so much rage I might explode.

I’m loving these plans to go back to school and have another shot to redeem myself now that Twenty has gotten all her partying done and hopefully will not decide to throw away everything in pursuit of a high that she’ll never get again.

But seriously, who do you think you are? You can’t do it.

The world was your oyster, and you threw it away. You can’t handle being anything but the pathetic bloated disgusting blob that you are right now. Just go hide away and never come back. Even the people on the subway are disgusted by you, hate that you’re polluting their vision with your disgusting fatness and ugly skin and greasy hair and clothes that don’t fit.

Seriously. Nothing fits. Nothing. Fits. Do you know how much that makes me want to scream and break down sobbing?

Everyone can see. Everyone can see everything. They see everything. EVERYTHING.

They don’t get to know. No one gets to know. Why are you doing this so that there’s no way to hide it? Why are you doing this? Why? I don’t want anyone to know how disgusting I am. Why are you advertising it for all the world to see? This disgusting bloated body you’re toting everywhere is like a big flashy blinking sign that says, “Disgusting failure.”

If you were fat and had friends, fine. If you were fat and in school, fine. If you were fat and successful, fine. But you are NONE of those things. You don’t get to be fat when that’s all you are. You are nothing but fatness. You have no get out of jail free card. You have nothing to redeem yourself. You are just fat. Disgusting. A failure.

How could you have done this, both of you, to everything that I created?

It was so beautiful and you smashed it to pieces by sitting on it with your big fat behind. The one that keeps you from putting your pants on above your mid-thigh. You are truly disgusting.

I was this same size, but at least I was doing something about it. I was trying. I would exercise, not eat, make plans, go on diets. You are doing nothing but pigging out. Why are you not doing anything?

You say this is me just needing to be me for a while, but you’re right about it not actually being me. It’s not me.

I am the strong smart powerful unstoppable person who is going to do everything and be incredible. I am not this pathetic person hiding away and shoving food into her mouth. I don’t want to be her. Why are you making her come back again?

I did everything I could to not be myself.

Why are you trying to drag this disgusting mess back into the picture when I had shoved it away so completely? Why?

You’re just sitting over there looking all concerned and planning your response, you’re not even listening to me.

And Twenty is still sulking because I said she wasn’t cool. Get over yourselves and start acting like adults.

You are not my age. You are not fifteen. You don’t get to act like a fifteen-year-old.

Me acting like that wasn’t OK at that age either, it’s not OK for people to be like this. Ten years have gone by, why have you not figured out how to fix this? I put so much energy into the future, why is this still happening? Why are you two such failures? Why? WHY?

OK, I’m done with this.

Yes, I’ll keep writing. It’s actually pretty fun to tell you what horrible people you are since you’ve been telling me that the whole time. YOU guys are the swamp, not me. I’m the one who was trying to drain it. Maybe I did, and now you guys are just all the disgusting stuff at the bottom I couldn’t see because you were submerged.

Do something about this. Now.

Fifteen (15)

And seriously, come up with some sort of naming system. I am not a number.

P.S.

Dear Reader,

Hi. I don’t have a stupid question.

Ana is the one who set up this stupid project and at the end she always wants to ask a question, break the 4th wall, because this is published where people can see it. Really stupid idea, if you ask me. It’s like that blinking sign.

Come see how crazy and disgusting we all are! Get your popcorn here, it’s going to be a show! Pathetic.

I think she just wants people to think she’s cool or innovative or fancy because no one thinks that and they are right to not think that. She is the worst person I have ever met and I am so horribly depressed that I become her. She is a complete waste of space contributing nothing to society and doing nothing to improve herself.

And yet she still expects great things to happen to her.

She doesn’t understand why she’s suffering the injustice of having no friends, being so fat, not having a fancy job, and her family so incredibly glad that she is finally gone.

You want to know why, Ana? You. You are the reason that everything is terrible.

I don’t really even hate you because you’re not worth all that energy. I’m just disappointed. I’m done. I’m just done. I did my part and worked hard so that we could be something, do something great with our life, and you just threw it all away.

You don’t get my cooperation or support because you don’t deserve it.

Your fake compassion and offer to help don’t make up for it, they just give me more reasons to not want anything to do with you. So no, I’m not going to ask our “Dear Reader” to answer a question. You shouldn’t be asking people stupid questions, you should be apologizing for your existence and hiding away so you stop embarrassing yourself.

God, I am so tired. You really are not worth it.

A Swampy Swamp: Afraid of Fear Itself

Dear Cookie Monsters (both/all of you),

Hi.

This is really hard to write without giving a play-by-play of the day.

You’re right 20 (can I just refer to you by your age for now until we figure something out?), this isn’t a diary and we all were there for the so many excruciating parts of today. No need for a recap. Besides, having things happen in the day besides the usual hiding from the world is a good thing no matter how cringe-worthy they are.

Something I will note, however, is the 360° dressing room.

Yes, more shopping, and also in the middle of a binge spree. What has gotten into me? Maybe buying something that was too small yesterday because I figured it would fit when my stomach wasn’t so full. Oops.

Seeing my body from all angles for the first time in forever was a bit shocking.

It was just so different. There was stuff here that wasn’t there before and my skin was doing funky things because of it. This store had US sizes, so I could see I was basically the same size as when I was 15’s age (sorry for calling you a number, we’ll figure something out).

I was also afraid, but that fear was for a much different reason than before.

Before, I would be terrified that if I was larger, I wouldn’t have any friends, that people would think I was disgusting, and that my parents would have another reason to be disappointed in me (I know whining about parents is lame, but bear with me – this is more about my reaction than about my parents themselves).

Today, I was terrified that those old fears would descend upon me. I was afraid of fear itself.

Before, the result of those fears was the commencement of a dictatorship over my body where I deprived it, whipped it into shape, abused it, and disrespected it. I was so afraid all those thoughts and behaviors would come rushing back.

But they didn’t. It was the weirdest thing ever.

There was more of a sense of intrigue as I stared and poked and scrutinized. Basically no disgust at all. It seriously was so bizarre. I have never looked in the mirror, even when I was 20’s size and “hot,” and been more or less OK with what I saw. No size was ever small enough. I apologize for all the poking today, but I was just really fascinated by how different everything was. I will cut back on that. Like entirely. I will really try, I promise.

I think being at 15’s size and treating this body with respect is like giving 15 a chance to just be herself.

Yes, her body looked that way because of what she was doing to it, but that didn’t mean she was intrinsically “bad”, like that she was a “glutton,” “disgusting,” “repulsive,” or “took up too much space.”

So, 15, do what you’ve got to do.

20 and I are not here to judge. We are just going to hang out with you. We’re going to be unapologetically ourselves and we hope you will be the same. If you are eating alone in the bathroom so no one can see you, then we will be there, too. It’s going to be a bit cramped in that stall, but we’ll make it work.

We won’t tell you how many calories you’re eating, how long it will take you to work that off, or our master scheme to quickly get things “fixed.” We are just taking that all off the table. Hopefully forever, but for now just off the table. It’s not because I’m laying a trap for you. I’m sort of laying a trap for myself because if I make myself do that, then maybe I can end up wanting to do that.

It’s like with 20 when we were playing chicken (we might still be – thank you 20 for being patient and keeping me on my toes).

I would say that she could binge if she wanted to because saying that made her not want to binge, but my wanting is what would make her end up bingeing because she didn’t like me getting what I wanted at her expense, even if it was what she wanted too. (OK, breathe.) She wanted us to get there as equals rather than me taking all the credit for reeling her in. The lesson: she is sitting right here in my brain and can hear everything that I think, so I can’t hide things from her.

And I can’t hide things from you, either.

I am telling you things that I am not 100% ready to say at this moment, but want to genuinely mean them in the future. I was you when I was 15, and I know what it’s like to be told all those horrible things. I’ve been hearing them for years, from myself, so I really and truly know.

I want you to just do you and to ignore me while I get on board.

You are going to say I’m only “letting” you be “fat” and keep bingeing because if I let you do that now, I’ll be able to win you over and bring you under my control in the future so we can finally go back to being small and pretty and cute and likeable. I know that because I can feel you rolling your eyes and plotting my downfall all the way from over here. And I know that because that indeed is pretty much exactly what I’m thinking.

So please, rip me to pieces.

That’s what 20 did, she really tore me a new one, but I was so incredibly thankful for her to be gritty and “ugly” and truthful with me. So please, be as “ugly” as you need to be. Test me and put me through the wringer.

I was worried this whole time about protecting you from the world, when really I should have been protecting you from myself.

I wanted to make you pretty and perfect so no one could ever say anything bad about you and nothing bad would ever happen to you. But all the bad things ever said and all the bad things ever done were all me, the person who is supposed to protect you and love you and be your ally.

This is sappy and you’re repulsed and 20 is over in the corner rolling her eyes at me.

Seriously, what is with all the eye-rolling? You guys are making me feel really lame.

But I am trying to be as genuine as I can.

Maybe I am laying it on way too thick that it’s scaring you off, but I am just trying to speak my mind. Maybe I’m just telling you what I think you need to hear rather than telling you what I actually think because I’m worried if I tell you what I think, I’ll end up hurting you again. Because what I think, these automatic thoughts conditioned by years and years of thinking them, are not what I really think. When I sit back and consider everything, I don’t think that you are “ugly” or “fat” or “disgusting” or “gluttonous.” I just think you are a very sad, troubled girl who is using whatever she can get her hands on to make herself feel better and make the world go away. Just because the tool you use makes you look different than other people doesn’t mean that you are somehow “bad.”

However, no matter how much I believe all these things I am telling you, the reality of how I react when you reach for food or when I catch a glimpse of your body, what I actually end up thinking and saying to you, completely contradict everything that I am saying now.

But can you tell that this all is more an echo from the past?

I’m not actually saying, “ABC,” I’m saying “Normally, I would say “ABC.”” A very slight but tremendous difference. And if I do say, “ABC,” it’s more of a knee-jerk reaction: Perceive “fatness” –> Feel panicked –> Think, “Must get rid of this “fatness” or bad things will happen” –> Say something abusive to 15 to motivate her to get rid of this “fatness” by convincing her that she is bad and bad things will happen if it persists.

I/we have been doing this for years. Do you expect me to just stop overnight?

I basically have, I just have a slight twitch left. Sort of. I know you’re not going to give me a break either, just like 20, but I’m OK with that. I’m terrified, but OK with that. If that is what is needed to make me finally ditch this broken machine “Office Space”-style, then let’s do this.

Yes, I am saying this and still thinking, “Oh boy, just get through this and then we are on our way to losing weight! I can’t wait until I am back in control of everything.”

You are in the same room and can hear everything. I am just now starting to realize that, thanks to 20 bringing it to my attention. Very embarrassing. I now realize you all are not “stupid” and that I cannot trick you into believing everything I tell you. I’ve been nothing but tricks and schemes, so it’s going to be a while before I earn your trust. And that I be trustworthy. I’m really bad at that, as 20 has been so pleased to remind me at every opportunity. I’m saying that with love – thank you, seriously.

You are making me a better person and I am so glad you are giving me that chance despite everything that I’ve put you through.

Maybe you are doing it because of everything rather than in spite of it. I think you guys sort of enjoy watching me be humble and finally realize that I wasn’t as in control and superior as I had always thought.

This letter is just going on forever, isn’t it?

I’m hoping if I can somehow write this all in a way that I mean it (or come across as meaning it), then we can just get this whole mess over with and go back to “normal.” I’m just tired. This is hard. I just want it to be over and for us to be in that allergy commercial. Sitting in this swamp scares me. It’s such a swampy swamp.

But it also feels oddly right.

It’s kind of nice, when I really sink into it, to not be the big boss all the time trying to keep all my ducks in a row. It’s kind of nice to have people sitting with me, too. Because when we’re sitting together in the closet or the bathroom or the cafeteria, I’m not just sitting with you, you are also sitting with me. That may seem obvious, but it’s kind of just hitting me now that I also need you. I have needed you for a long time. I haven’t liked treating you this way. I’ve been doing it for “your own good,” but I haven’t liked it.

So, please bear with me. I’ve always thought that you guys have such a long way to go in terms of developing, but I also have a long way to go.

I know you stopped reading this letter a really long time ago and that I wrote all that mostly for myself, so I’m just going to end this. I can’t write my way into being the way I want to be any more than I can force you to be “normal.” I will have to embody it. And “normal” is off the table. There never was a “normal” and if there ever was a “normal” during any of this mess, I don’t want to go back to that. I want something new.

OK, even I am not listening now. This letter just keeps going. This ends now. For real.

OK, bye.

Kind of hoping for a letter from 15, but I am not going to push you.

I’m just saying it would be awesome. I know writing this makes that 99% more likely to not happen, so just ignore this. You aren’t even reading this anymore, right? Oh wait, you came back just to read to this last bit? I really wish you guys weren’t so “smart.” No, I actually do. Get in here, group hug. No? Just more eye-rolling?

Alright, this letter is seriously over now. It’s over. It’s been over. I’m leaving. Goodbye. Bye. Picture me as SNL’s Bill Clinton saying that as he backs out of Hillary’s announcement video. Likewise, expect me to pop back in with a saxophone at any moment.

I think my excitement over us all potentially becoming besties is making me a bit loopy. This really is super cool.

Alright, finally done! For goodness sake…

Ana

(or “25” to make up for calling you numbers)

P.S.

Dear Reader,

I can’t think of a question.

I’m just glad (and still scared) that you are reading this for whatever reason. I think I’ve been asking questions to get a response (obviously), which is what I genuinely want, but I didn’t think would happen unless I sneakily laid out a trap. I do genuinely want that, but I’m still being sneaky. My P.S. questions are like a discussion question at the end of a reading assignment that makes you hate what you just read.

So, here’s a question:

Can you spot any ways in which Ana is being sneaky that she either doesn’t realize or she hasn’t realized that everyone else realizes? Because she just caught this one. Sorry. And you don’t have to answer that. (Is that another trap? Forgive me, Reader.)

 

 

Layers: Time Traveling to Heal Old Wounds

Dear Ana,

I’m trying to skip rehashing the day as much as possible because this is not a diary. You and I are not telling each other anything new when we go over what happened, because we were both there. And it’s really boring and upsetting to relive everything.

A few things of note:

1. Yes, we got food after we bombed spectacularly. But it started off pretty slow and actually it might not have been as much as normal because the clothes we were in didn’t have much wiggle room.

2. We bought clothes to celebrate as well (bingeing and shopping – definitely a first), and nothing fit because of how big this body is now. I think this is the biggest it’s ever been. True, the sizes are different here and I’m already a head taller than most people, but I was fitting into most things when I got off the plane a couple months ago.

For some reason, however, we’re not dying on the inside.

Yes, this body is uncomfortable and hard to maneuver and I don’t like how blotchy and swollen its face is all the time, but besides that mild feeling of annoyance, there is surprisingly very little hatred.

It’s super weird. Is this apathy or acceptance?

Maybe just numb sadness. I don’t like wandering around gathering food to eat all by myself. That’s what this extra stuff on me means. I kind of wish I could just peel it off so I could get a good night’s sleep for once.

I still have this idea that this is who I am supposed to be. Like this.

And the reason why everything bad has ever happened is because I was fighting this. If I had just binged and “let myself go,” I wouldn’t have gotten so sick and had to leave school so many times. I wouldn’t have fake friends, I would have real ones because only people who see past exteriors would want to stick around. I wouldn’t have gone out and gotten into trouble with a body like this, I would have hidden it away at home and stayed safe.

Safe. That is what this extra stuff means. It’s like a weight anchoring me into a safe harbor.

Things are different now, though. Sort of. I’m not crazy like I used to be and bad things won’t happen if this extra stuff goes away. I don’t need padding and insulation from the world. I think I’m getting to know myself a bit better everyday, and this “real me” is actually just me when I’m 14 or so, bingeing everyday after school and riding the exercise bike incessantly and crying about everything being too big and noticeable and she wished she could just melt away into the background and get lost in the crowd rather than be this big blubbery bumbling giant.

I don’t think just eating and eating and eating because I’m sad or ashamed or embarrassed or afraid means that I’m letting myself finally become the person I had been trying to suppress this whole time.

That girl was really sad and alone. That wasn’t who she really was, either. She wasn’t the mischievous Cookie Monster stealing cookies from the pantry because it was fun to be bad and eat what and when she wasn’t supposed to. She was the Cookie Monster who started to eat the cookies to fill up the emptiness and drown all her terrible swirling thoughts and she couldn’t stop until she could barely breathe. That Cookie Monster is not who we were meant to be, although I love and care for her deeply.

I don’t know what to say or do because there is nothing I can say or do.

You were so far gone by then and anyone trying to do anything to you felt like it was an attack. You would just sit upstairs in your closet and cry and pray that they wouldn’t open the door and make you come out and tell you how weird you are because normal people don’t sit in closets crying and why are you even crying in the first place?

I’m not going to do anything but sit here.

And I know just sitting there also feels like a slight because if I cared about you, I would be doing something about this to make things better, but we’ve tried that. We’ve tried that, your family tried that, treatment centers tried that. Trying to put a lid on it or hide things from you or retrain you just make you lash out and get angrier, act out even more.

So I’m done with that.

I’m done with that and Ana is done with that. Even though Ana is really blubbery and soft (metaphorically) and lacks a spine and is starting to become annoyingly optimistic and girly again, I’m beginning to warm up to her. A tiny bit. Don’t you dare take this and run with it Ana, that’s all your getting and nothing more.

But anyway, I’m going to sit here in this closet and Ana is going to sit here in this closet, too, and you aren’t going to be alone. It’s like time traveling almost.

Thinking of myself being your age and having two older sisters sitting in that closet with me just sitting there and not treating me like I was weird and not even acknowledging that we were all sitting in a closet, just acting like we were hanging out having a tea party or something. I cannot tell you how much thinking of that makes everything hurt, but in a really good way.

Sweeping things under the rug is definitely not good (that was the opposite side of the parenting pendulum), but this isn’t sweeping anything.

It’s the opposite – just sitting in it, in that big swampy swamp, and being OK with it. I’m not sitting here thinking it’s gross and thinking you’re gross, I’m just sitting here and all I see is you. That real you that you think is buried at the bottom of those food containers.

You won’t find her down there because she’s right here, in the center.

So, I can’t help but acknowledge that this letter writing project has started to have an onion effect, where I peel off the top and then get access to the rest. Ana was just talking to me before, and now that we’re kind of getting along a bit, that lets me step aside so we can talk to the next layer in. Ana is 25, I am 20ish, this Cookie Monster is 15ish.

This seriously is the most bizarre thing ever and it doesn’t even feel that weird.

OK, I’ll stop. I can sense you getting annoyed with me already. This must be how Ana feels all the time. Ugh. I swear I’m cool and not as dorky as she is, you should be idolizing me, not shooting daggers at me.

OK, seriously done talking, I’m just going to sit here. With you.

– Cookie Monster (20ish)*

(*What do I call myself? I want to give myself a separate name, but then this just seems like it’s getting creepy. I’ll just have to think about this a bit more.)

P.S.

Dear Reader,

What moment would you go back in time if you could to be there for your younger self when he/she needed you the most?

Color: Pursuing Life

Dear Cookie Monster,

Thank you for reminding me that I’m old. I mean that in a good way.

I forget how old I am sometimes because of how many years I’ve lost.

I think that’s why I think I’m still you sometimes even though I was you so long ago.

The number of years are starting to pile up, but it still feels like some stuff only happened a few months ago.

I’m just tired. And time is sliding by.

There are so many things I want to do, but I’m always stuck in cement. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be here. 

I want people. And color. And clothes that fit.

I want a life that means something. I want to be brave and strong and do everything I ever dreamed of.

Even the little things like doing laundry seem like an ordeal. How am I going to do other stuff?

I think once I get the ball rolling and have a place to go everyday, that will give me some inertia to pick the pieces back up.

I need to be in a rat park rather than a rat cage. A bunch of big bright bouncy balls would make things so much better. They put out a bunch of those on the lawn during finals week, that was really fun.

I’m not making any sense anymore. Time for bed.

Best,

Ana

P.S.

Dear Reader,

What’s your equivalent of a big colorful bouncy ball that makes everything better?

 

Game of Chicken: Conflicting Impulses

Dear Ana,

What you wrote yesterday was so long I got bored half-way through it and have since forgotten most of what you wrote.

Only two things stand out:

#1. You are a grown woman and sniveling about your parents is really lame.

They should not even factor into how you live your life. Seriously. Kind of pathetic. I know you think they always jinx you because they tend to doubt your abilities to be perfect (hmm, why would they do that?) and then when you fall short of being perfect, you look for anyone and anything but yourself to blame. Yes, it’s cool that you want to go back to school. Yes, they are going to think that’s a bad idea. I don’t really care either way, I’m just tired. Really tired. You don’t have to convince me about anything, just don’t make me do any work.

#2. I can agree with you about the boredom thing.

It’s fun for like 5 seconds and then it gets boring. Having to go through all of that is exhausting. And repetitive.

Oh, and I guess something else stuck out, too. The whole game of chicken that you were going on about.

Yeah, I don’t have any suggestions. Because here I am making plans to go binge and you’re like “sure” and when I decide I’m “good for right now,” you get all happy and it makes me just want to punch you in the face and go binge so you stop being so happy. It’s annoying. I’m not doing this because you want me to do it, I’m doing this because I’m good for right now for whatever reason.

Maybe it’s because you’re actually letting me speak for once and giving me the reigns without me having to rip them out of your hands. I don’t know.

But seriously, you need to (wo)man up. I’m not that scary, although I’ll take your fear of me as a compliment. You shouldn’t be terrified of me acting out. Being down in the depths is horrible, but it doesn’t last. Well, sometimes it does. I don’t know what I’m saying.

I just hate moving. That’s what’s on my mind right now.

This new place we’re going to has a “no eating in the room” rule. You’re supposed to eat everything in the common room. No way in hell. I don’t like people watching me eat, or even knowing what I’m eating, which is why I buy things here and there so no one knows the entirety of it. And then, once my backpack is full, I go back to my room and consume it all.

I want to settle down somewhere where I can stay more than just a few weeks.

I hate people getting to know me, but all this moving is just exhausting. Rule #348 of traveling: if something can spill, it will spill. Which is why you don’t stockpile anything. I had to say goodbye to a bunch of stuff I brought from home, which was unfortunate.

But that’s done. Everything you own fits into one suitcase, which is pretty cool.

Alright, time to go buy some food.

I just hate moving, I don’t want to have any brain cells tomorrow when I’m on the train and I love how bingeing puts me into a state of numbness.

So, will you take me out trick-or-treating?

You can dress up in whatever ridiculous and embarrassing costume you want because I just really want you to come with me. Going trick-or-treating on my own is really depressing.

Cookie Monster

P.S.

Dear Reader,

What do you do when you are dreading something?