Will you still love me? Strangers Sheets pt.2

I want to let you love me

And treat me as I deserve

But the voices in my head say I’m worthless

I’m surprised you haven’t heard

They say don’t go near her, she’s damaged goods

A price tag that’s gone down

Many men have left their stain

She’s just another rock you found

You treat me like a queen

But I feel this awful guilt

I want to cut myself just to make you see

That I’m just spoiled milk

I love you more than words can say

I want to give you all that I have to bid

But it hurts to have you love me back

Sometimes I feel I should have hid

I know you see a pretty face

A heart so golden, that it blinds

But I’m afraid that one day you’ll realize

The body you love is theirs, instead of mine

You’re making love to all the strangers

The rapist in my past

Things I had no control over, but ruined me

And I cannot take them back

But if you are willing to help me see something

Lost in the midst of stranger’s sheets

I’m willing to invest the same amount

To one day learn to love me.

©Kim Edwards

October, 15, 2017

As a new relationship has blossomed so unexpectedly I find that due to a past filled with trauma, unsaid words relayed through absent consent that I am un-worthy, my self -image has been tarnished. Like anyone I want to love and be loved.  I want a partnership, friendship, a marriage that is genuine and one day a family. But before I even get to the bigger and better things I must learn to love myself which I find to be my biggest battle. A comprehensive test of loyalty, forgiveness, self-care, honesty and the understanding that setting boundaries is more than acceptable is crucial to my progression as a continuously growing adult.

Although I am well aware of what needs to happen and the intuitiveness that I possess I worry I may never get there. I’m finally dating a man whom is not a fixer upper, he is legit, mature, hardworking, loving, smart, thoughtful, dedicated and driven to always do better whether in life or in our growing relationship. Often, I find myself feeling blessed while on the other hand wishing it wasn’t so because the people in my past have taught me that love is something you earn and hardly unconditional. Always waiting for the other shoe to drop and questioning why he hasn’t hurt me? Why is he forgiving? With tears in my eyes and my eating disorder sneaking up on me to remind me “it’s too good to be true and love’s not for you.” I fight back those tears and do things purposely to sabotage what very well may be my future and a beautiful one at that. A week ago I did a dance to a song that really touched me titled “Will you still love me” and I dedicated it to the sweetest man I have ever met. Mind you the honey moon phase ain’t over, but there are no signs that it will end. I pray with everything in me that as I learn to find patience within myself, he will too. 

https://youtu.be/Zcjf6JBawOQ

The Art of Dying; The last hoorah

I received a text after my appointment just as I had just gotten home to make a sand-which and relax. “She is not doing well, everyone is gathered, I think this is the end” my friend said. I contemplated whether or not I should eat first since I hadn’t all day, but came to the quick conclusion that if in the time it took me to make and eat lunch my old patient who had very quickly become a great light in my life had passed during that time I would regret it so very much. I put all my sand-which makings in the fridge and left the house as quickly as possible. There was a knot in my throat and this time it wasn’t my enlarged tonsil that I had found out that very day would need to be removed within the next few weeks. This knot was a forced attempt to fight back tears. I had to be strong, emotional was not something I could be during this time. 

I walked in the room and 5 people were gathered as they watch their loved one struggle to breath in and out. Here and there one or all of us would say “I love you Gina” and she would respond “awe, I love you all too”. I grabbed hold of her warm hand and did what I do with any patient that is rounding 3^rd base to the end of their life, checking her pulse and feeling her heartbeat which were both strong. I stroked one hand while holding the other. Here and there I could feel her give me a good squeeze as she would tell me “I love you baby” in which I would respond “I love you too, you will never be forgotten. It’s okay to go, you don’t need to fight so hard. God has you and He is ready to make you an angel. I will be okay, but I know that because I hold you in my heart you will always be with me.” Another woman stroked her arm and sang to her while tears ran down her face. I did my best to comfort all those around me, I was in a place in which I knew of the afterlife journey and how much greater it would be than the one Gina was in now of suffering which brought me a peace that these friends of hers were not quite capable of understanding in this moment. We were all in different places in our grieving, no one is right and no one is wrong. Every once in a while, I would lean in to give her a kiss on her cheek and hear her say “oh I love you baby, you are so good to me.” I will never ever forget those words.

Just when we thought she was done she opened her eyes and a part of me thought it was some miracle, but the aide in me knew this was just the last hoorah. She somehow got a surge of energy, enough to tell me “No! I don’t want the bed pan, I want to go to the bathroom”. So, with oxygen in toe and an aide and I on either side we did just as she wished. She went to the restroom while holding onto me. She was in so much pain and I was more willing to allow her to hold onto me while she went to the restroom and ignore the smell, than to leave her there on the toilet. I feel so blessed to have been able to take care of her one last time. I enjoy every part of my job although on this day it was just out of pure love for a woman I have come to care so deeply for. I took her back to bed and she was up talking to her friends so I figured that I should go with the plan to come back in the morning while also being aware that this miraculous turn of events could easily have been the last of her energy. I told her I loved her, and heard it back and to me that is the greatest gift and memory I could be left with.

At 10:45 God made her angel. That same night she went from yelling at the nurse, insisting on using the bathroom and being super talkative to leaving this world to move on to another. One of peace, comfort, love, pain free and the ability to do all that she couldn’t since she had been diagnosed with cancer. I remember telling her earlier as she lay frail in the bed “I cannot go with you, it’s not my time, but I pray that when I close my eyes, I will see you in my dreams.” It’s only been a couple of days. I have had my meltdowns and been there for my boyfriend as he has had his. I’m doing my best to be patient and wait for her to join me in my subconscious. She will do it in her own time, just as she had done everything else in her life.  The very last thing I did for her was a dance to a Cover of Time after Time by Javier Colone. I felt it best described our relationship as the lyrics say “if your lost and you look then you will find me, time after time, if you fall I will catch you I’ll be waiting, Time after time.” Because as a care giver and her favorite aide she was always looking for me and the fact she was unsteady on her feet I was always there to catch her and now that she is in heaven I can’t help but expect she would do the same for me. “Suitcase of memories almost left behind, time after time.” May you rest in peace Gina and always remember how much of an impact you have made on so many people’s lives including mine. I will be waiting for your visit. May you rest peacefully in the arms of the angels as you have now gained your wings, they shall teach you how to fly. Love always,

Kim Edwards

https://youtu.be/BQ997v5lhoY

DID i do that; living with disasociative identity disorder

“I was sitting, there sellin, turnips on a flatbed truck Crunchin on a pork rind when she pulled up she had to be thinkin this is where rednecks come from” I was singing to Billy Currington’s “Good Directions” when my friend looked at me and asked “what do you call a black girl that sings country music?” I looked at her with a keen seriousness on my face and without hesitation replied “an identity crisis”. The two of us chuckled so hard we just bout fell out our seats. It was a funny joke at the time and even to this day I look back at that moment and laugh, but I also take my reply much more seriously for reasons I shall tell you now. Well, all of us shall explain because it’s not just my story but every identity that lives within me has a mind of her own.

Back in October a girl, the age of 27 was raped by a man she knew quite well. And while she had been in this predicament a few times in the past she lay still and frail as tear drops fell from her eyes making the Christmas lights in her room blurry. For once though she did not remain that way and I’m sure you are wondering why? Well, because of me. My name is Jordan, I am an extension of Kim, an alternate personality. One of 4, but the most outspoken, loud, obnoxious, courageous, funniest of them all or at least I would like to think so. I am also more assertive and at times aggressive and seeking vengeance on those who mess with any of the other personalities I live with. I pretty much took over Kim’s mind and body during that night. I wanted her to have a chance to win this fight and even if she lost, which she did, she is still able to reminisce on the fact that she did indeed (because of me) put up a hell of a fight. What happened that night that she was raped was what is known as a split in personalities. But as the days went by and Kim became less capable of discussing the event, I, Jordan, had to find a way to be more present in her life. Sometimes people tell me I am mean to Kim and I guess if I was to be honest I’d say well the things I say aren’t always the kindest, but if she had let me do my job that night and stopped freezing then maybe she would not have been raped. I blame her yes, for the parts she played as they are crucial to the story. She started what happened that night and I had to finish it. I try my best not to allow Kim to freeze up again as she remains traumatized to this day, but sometimes the only way to make her feel something other than the psychosomatic aching in her vaginal area is to simply cut her. Although there have been times when she was so far gone and my energy level had come to a screeching halt that I just bout had enough and told her to jump off the roof or take all her pills, but there was this little voice one day that came out of no- where and said “Jordon leave her alone, let’s compromise. Kim may sit on the roof, but she will not jump.” Well then, guess I am not the only one here besides Kim. She introduced herself to me as Kaylie. She, Kim and I are all the same age. I do my best to protect Kim, but don’t always succeed. Kaylie on the other hand is what they refer to in Psychology class as the “ego” she is level headed. She both feels emotions, but not too deeply and can also hold a conversation. She is not aggressive or assertive, she basically is just a mediator and more likely than not will be the one that helps all of us work our way through the events that occurred on that cold night in October in a room that once was Kim’s safe place.

According to the DSM, disasociative identity disorder once known as multiple personality disorder has certain criteria that one must meet. Now at the beginning amnesia (one of the criteria) was not something that fit what was happening in Kim’s life or mine or Kaylie’s or even the toddler Kim whom I have not mentioned until just now. She is about 5 years old. Her affect is one of a 3-year-old sometimes as she drinks from a sippy cup and sucks on a pacifier, but mainly she just likes to be held. Kim did not receive much affection as a child growing up and this split in personality has almost been a blessing in disguise, allowing her the chance to get what she needs from people who truly understand this disorder. Now back to the amnesia, we didn’t have that at first, but now as days go by I find I forget what I did all day or where certain things are in my house. I don’t always remember the actions I have taken against myself or things I have said to others.

Well now that I have told you about my many different personalities and I promise I couldn’t make this up as there is a remarkable difference between each identity. The hard part though is telling those I love of this disorder without them either thinking I am malingering or can simply just be “normal” whatever the fuck that means! There are a few people that I trust who know, but for the greater part of my social interactions with people I choose not to tell them, but then again, they are in for a big surprise if my identities switch in midst of conversation. Now that would be a show to watch!! Oh, wait they did that already. Gosh damn it! Anyway, I am so in the mood for some trap rap radio, too bad I’m working. In my head, I’m singing “first let me hop out the motha fucking porsh” hahahahaha.

https://youtu.be/aP4WD5iGtJQ

The art of Dying part 2; A personal experience

As I sit here holding onto her smooth hand as she groans, gasping for each breath that I am so grateful to have come so easily, I fight back tears and remind myself as some may say she is dying, her and I have the same undying faith that this is not the end, but a new beginning, a new path, a journey she is creating for herself that I only pray to one day join her on when it comes to be my time. One without pain, suffering, a destiny in which only peace, love and kindness are found. Not because of desire but simply because we are children of a God who wants to continue loving us unconditionally. She is a fighter and I pray that she doesn’t fight destiny in fear of giving up, but unlike any other hospice patient I struggle to give her permission to collect her wings and fly. I love her, she is a beautiful woman inside and out, an observation I have come to make in only a few short months of knowing her. When she wasn’t so ill I dealt with a sassy woman whom was unfiltered like I, one whom most staff couldn’t get to follow the rules for she did not go the direction of the wind but created her own somewhat like Pochohauntas. A strong- willed woman with the best intentions which were often misinterpreted. She was filled with so much anxiety that people around her were unable to comprehend that she had and was trying to offer something. I assume it would be wisdom, pain, and what it was like to be in her shoes. I tucked her into bed for many months and still do. And despite that damn word that did not keep me from getting too close and crossing boundaries I long ago told her that I loved her. I visit her often just to ensure she is not alone and that she knows she is cared for. I have to pee so bad, but today is not one of her better days so I refuse to get up in fear that I may miss out on the opportunity of watching her receive her wings. I feel it and see it. The woman I have come to care so deeply for is taking shallow breaths that could lead to somewhere I cannot yet follow, while also, it could be as I said before just a bad day. But one day whether it is today or tomorrow or sometime in the next couple weeks I will have to accept, process and then celebrate the amazing truth that another angel has been born.

I may not be able to take away the pain

But I'll sing you a song to comfort

One of the love and joy you bring

To my heart when I need it or just want it

I will count your breaths both in and out

And be thankful they still exist

And that is reason one, of many

That make me feel so blessed

I may shed a tear of pain

Although I always promised I'd be strong

But I'm learning that part of strength

Is knowing when tears belong

They belong in my eyes, my head on your chest

As long as you are breathing

Knowing I love you until the day

You tell me you are leaving

June,15,2017

Always enjoy providing peace and reminding those who are close to leaving us that they are loved and that with each breath they are touching my heart in many ways 💞

©Kimberly Edwards

Absent Consent; A story of a broken girl still surviving

            “Sex takes the consent of two, if one person is lying there not doing anything cause they are not ready or not in the mood or simply don’t want to yet the other is having sex with their body, it’s not love it is rape”-Rupi Kaur. It seems simple does it not? Yet there I was saying nothing. Actually crying. Asking for him to stop and trying my best also not to make too much noise causing anyone else in my house to wake up, that would be rude, right? Anyway, I am going to in detail tell you the story of probably the scariest night of my life and not because I really want to relive it as telling it, even on paper may just as easily break me, but as I attempt to use exposure therapy this night I will tell you of. The hope is that by doing this I will one day realize I am as strong as those around me say that I am. In due time, I will be able to tell this story out loud as that will mean it has not ruined me completely as I will have overcome the shame.

“The rape will tear you in half, but it will not end you”-Rupi Kaur. For the last few months I have been engaging in the usual talk therapy and finally have come to the conclusion that my PTSD is in need of something much more aggressive. I understand though, the fear my therapist has in doing this with me as back in January, I overdosed on a cocktail of medications and alcohol in attempt to escape the thoughts that ran ramped, events of that night that were so real to me that my private parts actually felt the pain. Even to this day this still happens, but thankfully not as often. And even when it does, I am more apt to having a major temper tantrum as oppose to hurting myself in the process.

It was week day in October, one of those odd days in which you would forget what season we were in, as it was warm enough to wear a pair of jeans and a light jacket. My best friend and I decided as adults we had worked hard enough and decided to treat ourselves to a good night of drinking and dancing. The two things we do best. Rent the soundtrack was on deck being rewound over and over as Sarah and I sang to each other “Take me or leave me” knowing neither one of us would ever go anywhere. For what may have been the first ever, Sarah was ready to go home but was more inebriated than I. So just as she had done for many times before, I walked her home. Allowed her to lean on my frail body as we walked through yards, cut corners, J-walked and acted as sober as possible. Finally, after a long 25 min walk we made it to her house. Sarah decided to light up and asked me if I wanted a drag of the blunt she had just rolled and my normal response hadn’t changed “no thanks, I hate that shit” she seemed to convince me that actual marijuana was much different than a vape pen and that it wouldn’t cause me to faint like the last time. After saying no a couple times, I gave in just to please her. I choked as inhaled more than one should. What did I know though?, I was not an avid smoker, so I dragged on it like it was a cancer stick. I sucked down some water and coughed until tears ran down my face and then decided to head home.

It was not until I began walking down the street that I realized just how drunk I was. As I swerved towards the road and back at 11:30 at night I found my way to Urban outfitters and stood there to make a couple calls. Who in my contacts wouldn’t kill me for calling them this late at night to drive me home? I decided at that moment a friend of mine whom I had known for many years would probably be willing to come and get me. I was aware of the fact that he liked me, and at the moment, my intoxicated self, kind of liked him too. He answered and made his way to Urban within 15 minutes. My intuition must have been spot on that night because I called my case manager and left her a message with his name and let her know he was taking me home and mentioned that if anything were to happen to me please give the police this information. I’m not quite sure if I really believed anything bad could happen because, without hesitation I got into his car and told him all about my night. He doesn’t drink anymore, but he did ask if I had any weed left. Thankfully I could answer no to that one. We pulled into my drive way and a big part of me was feeling lonely and decided having him come up and perhaps spend the night (just to sleep) wasn’t a bad idea.

My inhibitions were lowered and my sexual desires took over as I removed my clothes and put on my favorite silk cheetah romper. As I sat next to him on the bed he commented on scars from my past, stories of which he had not yet known of. I took the liberty of explaining that numerous sexual assaults along with parents who were uncappable of providing the love and support I so desired had caused me to believe I was not worthy of love and attention. Being the thoughtful person I am whom remembers most everything I asked him how he was doing with his sobriety. Much to my surprise he was doing quite well. I then crawled over him to the side of the bed I commonly sleep on hoping he and I would spoon. He turned me over like a rag doll and began to kiss me. With past memories of trauma, I did not respond, but laid there and allowed him to do as he pleased. I didn’t care either way what happened. Alcohol had given me permission to engage in sexual activity. He then inserted his finger inside me and although my body was saying no, as I found it to be quite painful I allowed for this to happen. Within minutes he began to perform orally, yet still I had no objection. But once again I found his fingers inside me and decided that it was too painful so I got up and find my battery-operated toy, something I had just discovered and allowed myself to use occasionally in attempt to get to know my own body. Within seconds I realized this was not helping and he had no desire to be a part of this interaction. I turned over yet again with the means to go to sleep, but really this time I was ready to go to bed.

He curled up next to me and began to insert himself inside of me. I reached down to remove what I thought were his fingers because I was no longer interested only to find out he had removed his pants part way so that he could have sex with me. Now this is where it gets blurry, I am unsure if I mentioned to him that the other stuff was fine with me, but I did not want to have sex so I placed my hand back under my head and closed my eyes. I then found him attempting yet again to force himself inside of me. As quickly as I could, I said to him “please stop I don’t want to have sex.” He ignored my request and wrapped his arms tighter around my chest making it impossible for me to move. I began begging him to stop and asking him what he was doing as my temple began to ache with pain as he forced himself inside. I cried with hopes that he would understand that I really meant it, I was not interested and wanted to be left alone. Once I realized my tears meant nothing and my words were as empty as all trust I had ever had in men I stared at the wall and waited for this to end. I held my legs as tightly together as possible and due to the excruciating pain contemplated whether or not I should give up the fight. In the past I have done that. Tonight I made myself do something different. I fought which meant I allowed it to hurt because I refused to give up by squeezing together my thighs. After what seemed like forever he pulled out and turned over. I got up out of my bed and ran to the bathroom.

Staring at my reflection in the mirror I asked “what the hell just happened? What do I do now?” I allowed the broken girl staring back at me to cry and then washed my face only to see a beautiful disaster. I returned back to my room and told him I really didn’t sleep well with others in my bed and that I wanted to be alone. With that he buckled his belt and left my room. I ran downstairs to lock the door behind him fearing he would come back. I raced to my room and called the only number I knew that would not judge me and could possibly help. The advocacy center picked up and as I stood in the corner putting on new clothes and collecting my pajamas I told her “I think I was just raped.” She called a cab for me and offered to meet me at the hospital.

Within ten minutes the SANE nurse explained what would occur and although it was for my own benefit I was violated again with a metal speculum and swabs. I laid their as tears rolled down my cheeks re-living what had just happened. Within an hour the nurse had bagged up all the evidence she had collected and told me that I had been torn and bruised, but that it would heal. What do I say to that? I mean yea, I’m glad I’ll heal, but what about my heart, my mind? They would never ever be the same. I had gone into the day a partially damaged porcelain doll with some metaphorical bandages covering prior sexual assaults that had been pieced together with tape, love and therapy only to walk out of the hospital bleeding from inside out.

I returned to my home the one place I ever felt safe only to see a young woman staring back with tears in her eyes and an empty voice. It’s now been 8 months and I have yet to sleep in my bed. I have given up snuggles with my cat to lay in a dark closet where my shoes used to model the places that I have been, obstacles over- come and progress I have made. Many days when the sun goes down I look around my room and become an empty shell of a woman. Staring off into space with my hand covering the area he tore with my legs held tightly together hoping the pain will go away. And when it doesn’t, when I cannot snap out of it, I reach for the nearest blade and watch myself bleed in attempt to feel something other than the pain my entire body has taken on. I am here, but I am gone, you may reach me on the phone, but my heart has taken a leave of absence and as of now there is no return date. Just an arm of bandages caused also by absent consent.

©Kimberly Edwards

https://youtu.be/xnr7SxmHWGc

The Art of Dying

“Dying, is an art, like everything else”- Sylvia Plath. The reactions I received from people when I chose to work at Hospicare was like a metaphorical ying yang symbol, some thought “how wonderful, you would be so great at that” while others wondered if such an empathetic and fragile soul such as mine could handle living fully while caring for the dying. It is this quote that explains how someone such as I and everyone I work with wish we knew how to explain, but Plath seems to have put our feelings so simply and beautifully. Although the passing of a loved one is difficult and the grieving process is beyond excruciating for those who watch bedside, I promise the art of dying is not nearly as difficult for whomever is experiencing it no matter what you believe comes next.

The beautiful thing about my job is that tragedy is not what overcomes the soul when a particular diagnosis has been retained, but rather a light no one else can experience until their time. For some it may take a while to accept the truth, but once in the process or the beginning of the end that light is something they chase. It is my faith in God that allows me to know that with the amount of pain management, love, comfort and stability the wonderful staff and I provide our patients allows our patients to finally experience true peace. “End No the journey doesn’t end here. Death is just another path, one we must all take. The grey-rain curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass, and then you see it.”- J.R.R. Tolkien. I have often wondered if I am indeed the kiss of death, but have come to a selfish conclusion that many individuals want, but cannot express during those last moments that they need your permission. As someone whom sits at their side when the family cannot make it, I sing to them, I explain what the world looks like in the moment, probably the only time I practice true mindfulness; I remind them they are loved, explain each picture on the wall and art piece that someone has left, I pray for them and most importantly I give them permission. The struggle to take in air is something I believe is done to please their loved ones, but as they take that last breath and their chest rises, their lips part I choose to believe that is their way of saying thanks. And this is the last word.

There is something beyond the Universe and some of us may live a long time to get to know of it and some of us experience it sooner. Whatever the diagnosis that causes one to move on past the green grass and blue sky as we know it, is something each patient at some point come to terms with. Although they may not jump with joy to leave this world, I do believe they find an uncanny peace knowing the pain and suffering is over. I have been blessed to have the opportunity, yes that is what I call my job, an opportunity to give someone comfort and permission to fly amongst the greatest of whatever higher power they believe. And if they don’t have one and simply believe they are destined to rest under glistening snowflakes, daisies or tulips, I know its way better than gasping for air and holding onto something that is no longer meant to be. The best part of the company I work for is that no matter what the staff believes about life after death, they do their best and always succeed to make those last minutes’ matter just as a mother does when she brings a child into this world. No religion, belief or opinion is ever forced, they, we, I respect the wishes of each individual while always wishing them the best as they create a new art, beginning with parting the sky using their last God forsaken breath. I wouldn’t choose to be anywhere else than in the company of someone who does not want to be alone. The last-minute counts just as much as the first and I understand if you cannot do it. For some the art of dying is quite the opposite, but until we get there and experience it for ourselves why not just assume that the process is nothing less than magical.

Last, but certainly not least please let me assure you as many nurses, aides, caregivers or friends have told you, your loved one can hear you. It is at this time that one should shower their loved one with “I love you” and know that even though they cannot reply they also love you too. Those who are dying are aware, they too are mindful of what’s going on around them. I know this because I have been in the presence of many during their last moments here on earth. Sometimes they groan, or gurgle or may even try to open an eye for one last look. With each patient, I have seen follow angels to Golden Gates, I have held their hand and told them it was okay. I often wondered “who am I to give someone permission? Did I cause their death?”, but then realized I am the one sitting there doing my best to provide a safe place to receive their wings and if I had to say one narcissistic thing about myself, I’d say that in many ways they would like to thank me. One last quote, rather a question I would like to propose with the hope it will ease your mind if this entry has not already “How can the dead be truly dead when they still live in the souls of those who are left behind?” -Carson McCullers

©Kimberly Edwards

https://youtu.be/IwU1AZlqN9M

Redemption through anger; Love from hurt

“It has been one of the greatest and most difficult years of my life. I learned everything is temporary. Moments. Feelings. People. Flowers. I learned love is about giving- everything- and letting it hurt. I learned vulnerability is always the right choice because it is easy to be cold in a world that makes it so very difficult to remain soft. I learned all things come in twos: life and death, pain and joy, sugar and salt, me and you. It is the balance of the Universe.”- Rupi Kaur. This year I came to understand this valuable quote on a much deeper level. I had lived many years not fully comprehending that vulnerability is the only way to live life to its fullest and that experiencing emotions is the exact definition of vulnerability. And this year I would have to learn to experience and be comfortable with anger in order to be able to forgive and experience true freedom. In 2016, one of my best friends came home from treatment. There was a part of her that wanted to stay in recovery, but her eating disorder was so loud that not even the hope I had to offer could overcome the torment in her mind. Sadly, the pain Deena suffered got the best of her and she stole my medications to quiet the voices. I became rightfully angry and decided that the best way to get through this was to put a pause on our friendship. I forgot though to tell her I still loved her and that no matter what I always would. During our time not talking, Deena tried cocaine for what was not her first time, but certainly her last. Not yet alerted, I spent days walking by her house telling myself it was time to forgive, not knowing it was too late.

It was 4pm or what I refer to as “Ellen time”, on the 10^th of May, my alarm had just gone off to wake me up for my favorite show. Ellen’s theme song began “Today’s the day I’ve been waiting for, tomorrow won’t come after all, yesterday is so far away, and today is the only day, somebody please stop the clock.” I sang along while scrolling through my Facebook having no idea how ironically true those lyrics by P!nk were about to be when up popped a message, “When did Deena die?”. My heart stopped. Anxiously searching for proof that this was some sick joke I went on to Deena’s page only to find my nightmare come true. In bold letters, someone had written “I cannot believe you are gone.”  My tonsils became engulfed and painful with each short- lived inhale, I cried myself into a corner. I could barely breathe. I cried out “I’m so sorry Deena” which then turned into “I can’t do this, I have to go to heaven and apologize.”

For the next two weeks, I spent all my energy attempting to run from my emotions and after failing to escape the Universe that I had come to believe was not worth being a part of, I finally got it. The only way out, was through. It was time to no longer hold onto this guilt. My body was trying so hard to move onto the next stage of grief, but I was not allowing it to. I was too afraid. Anger was the last emotion I expressed towards Deena and now she was gone. I didn’t trust anger, but I had to learn to feel it. I knew I needed to be in a treatment facility to safely process. I was already severely underweight and malnourished and I couldn’t trust myself to eat while working with an outpatient therapist. I checked myself into a partial hospitalization for eating disorders a couple weeks later. I jumped right in and I was tested. I was forced to face each emotion however it manifested. “People have a tendency to avoid feelings that are uncomfortable. The truth is, feeling uncomfortable can be good; it can evoke change…”- Unknown. In one group, we were asked to write a letter to someone following a particular outline that was given to us. I did not take it seriously at first, but later realized that this is what one endures in order to heal. They do it by authentically writing the letter and allowing it to hurt. When I got home I let the words flow like my tears had when I first found out she was gone.

Dear Deena,

 I was and still am deeply saddened by the choice you made that resulted in your demise. Knowing that your death was preventable, and that you took that risk is why the pain is so much deeper. You were so bright, so funny and had a heart the size of more than two people’s put together. It’s not a matter of what you could have given the world by sticking around because you gave us a lot, but what you could have given yourself would have been extremely magical. I have many memories most of which are intangible, but great, as I can hold on to them forever. Sadly, I cannot make new ones and that is hard for me to fathom. Due to the incidences leading up to your death, I Deena fear anger because you did not give me time to forgive you. After all the disagreements you and I had, and the many times I drilled “I love you” into your head why couldn’t you have at least had the decency to reach out to me? I was mad Deena, but I was still there and I still loved you! As I look back now, it occurs to me how some things we mean in our heart hold more sustenance when released through our lips.

At some point, I will forgive you, but in the meantime, I ask that you love me through my personal grieving process, and that you do not take it personally. I understand your actions were to block out the voices of your eating disorder and the pain of your depression. The horrendous torture that occurs deep within your own soul when in the throes of the most complicated battles within yourself and your body is tough. Although starving rather than fighting against anorexia is easier, I also know the positive feelings that are acquired when you win and that it is so worth it. I wish you could’ve experienced that. I love you dearly Deena Beena, with lots of berries, milk, ensure and just to give it a little “boost” real sugar! - Kim

I felt like a weight had been lifted off of my shoulders having been honest with her, but with myself as well. Each letter and or conversation thereafter in which I needed to communicate uncomfortable emotions became much easier. I then realized I had been experiencing anger my whole life, but had been directing it towards myself and confusing it for sadness. This was a tough lesson. I mourn Deena’s loss every day and may for the rest of my life, but even though she is gone, she is still teaching me. 

Take Back the Night

Last week I attended the Advocacy Center’s annual Take Back the Night rally. I’m not in the minds of everyone there, but as I know from personal experience I assume that a majority of the people were triggered. I can’t speak to why perhaps I wasn’t upset by the rally as it was a reminder in so many ways of how rape culture is an organic and continuously growing epidemic. My guess as to why I didn’t melt into a puddle of tears by hearing stories upon stories is that I was blessed with the opportunity to perform a lyrical dance in front of this large audience. To me I had found a way to give back to the center whom has supported me day in and day for many years, as well as remind all the survivors in the crowd that despite being the victims once of horrendous traumas our bodies are still beautiful and capable of doing so many things, and for me that was dancing. I was able to tell a story, to lead by example and enjoy my body in a way I have not been able to for many years.

Ironically enough I had run into the man who raped me a week before this event which catapulted me into a vicious cycle of flashbacks, nightmares and what is known as hynogagogic jerks aka involuntary muscle spasms. For weeks now I have been sleeping in my closet as I cannot yet bring myself to sleep in my own bed due to the fact that my bed is the exact place in which my trauma occurred. The night I performed was so therapeutic that I finally followed through with the baby step of sleeping next to my bed. The first night went well, I even managed to sleep there a second night, but the third night I had recently come from dinner at the exact same restaurant and even sat in the same booth as I did months before when I told my mother that I had just been raped two days prior. For some reason the memory of informing my mother of this 4^th trauma haunted me more than hearing other people’s stories.

Each day I take a nap before enjoying my favorite daytime talk show Ellen. Lately I have fallen asleep around noon and despite it being daylight I am haunted by various nightmares which is commonly accommodated by sleep paralysis. Mind you, the paralysis also occurs during my night terrors as well. This past week I have woken myself up after spending which is easily the longest ten minutes trying to will myself awake only to realize that although my screams were not real, my tears were. I cry in my sleep and then thrash around the closet as I work myself up into a frenzy over the fact that no matter what I do and how hard I try the only control I seem to have is what the hell I put into my body. So, when I sit in my counseling sessions every week and feel interrogated by my therapist I can no longer accept this as her way of advocating for my recovery, because as much as I want to get better I also am extremely exhausted from fighting. Nightmares or not I sleep an average of 12 hours a day and typically more because all sleep is not restful. I can’t stop the memories nor the nightmares. I may have danced at Take back the night, but I can’t take back the actions that I did not commit against myself this past October, a night I will never forget. And with that, I will say to my readers, my friends, family, strangers, all humans; eating disorder recovery is not a straight line. Sometimes the people fighting the hardest are the ones losing the most. A wise woman told me last week, that “just because you are weak doesn’t mean you can’t at the same time be strong”. She is right. Right now, I am weak in every sense of the word, but despite my eating disorder I am still dancing, writing, advocating, reading my work and being the change I wish to see because I am just that strong. My disorder is strong as well and yes if we compare it to me, it has the upper hand. My therapist would question my motivation and how it is I plan to change these eating habits so that I do not stay sick, and to keep her happy I will without thought tell her that it is my desire not to feel sick, to continue my daily activities of life without fear of fainting and my hope to return to work and not be a liability. And although all of that is true, my sanity which seems to only be somewhat clear when I am starving is more important. I know continuing therapy with a person still using symptoms is just as bad as a counseling session with a drunk, but I believe there is still something I can get out of showing up and at the very least talking about what keeps me stuck. That right there is my strength, my desire to recovery, showing up and talking is my fight.

https://www.facebook.com/kim.edwards.5811/posts/10213295272484158

Transistion from treatment to home; My failed attempt to reintegrate back into the bed in which I was raped

As I sit in my closet writing this I can’t help but consider the importance that a support system could play in the transition from treatment to home. I can’t really blame anyone for not supporting me the way I need when even I wasn’t prepared for how difficult this transition would be. This treatment was different from many others. This time I didn’t go just to gain back the weight I lost, but to learn how to nourish my body despite the hatred I have towards it after I was sexually assaulted this past October. In the beginning of my stay in a partial hospitalization I came home on weekends to do laundry and see my cat. I found that I spent a great deal of time in bed and not much time with friends. But after a couple of weeks I decided that in order to really focus on myself and recovery, staying in Syracuse was the best option. While there I began processing the trauma and delved into topics that I have for years been embarrassed to talk of out loud. The more I took back the control, the more control I lost in my subconscious. As I slept my body willed itself to process the rape, but failed miserably as for a week straight I literally relived the rape over and over after I went to bed. I discovered that I struggled with sleep paralysis and decided on my own to increase my anxiety medication. After that horrible week the nightmares went away, but I still found that I was spending an unusual amount of time in the closet of my bedroom. Thankfully towards the end of my 50 days in treatment I was able to conquer sleeping in my bed which had originally been tainted by the nightmares.

I got home last Friday and as soon as the sun went down my anxiety skyrocketed causing me to hyperventilate, pull at my hair and even hallucinate. I literally went crazy. Within moments I had rummaged through my shoe closet and pulled out just enough of them for me to create a space in which I could sleep. So many days I had spent wishing to go home and excitedly planning my future in recovery here on Wood St only to come home and be re-traumatized. Yes, before I went away I slept in the same bed in which I was raped, but some- how I managed to get through it. I think that at that time I was still in such shock that the option of a closet fort never crossed my mind. Doing a cleanse of my room, reorganizing, buying new sheets, rearranging things to make my space look completely different was not an idea that was nurtured. I was too focused on controlling my intake and my weight to realize it was my very own personal space that was creating such mental and emotional chaos.

In the best of both worlds I would not have come back to my original place of residence crying to go home to a place that was only meant to be temporary. I would have already had friends rearrange my room and cleanse it for me. I would have had inspirational quotes and reminders that I am worth the fight and that it wasn’t my fault hanging on my walls. People would have considered that perhaps my coming home could be a traumatic experience, yet I was dropped off on the sidewalk with all my bags, walked into a disgusting house and found my way to the bedroom that was once upon a time the only place I felt safe in. It now is just a space that holds both a tainted bed and within it holding onto tragic memories while this same bedroom has a perfect size closet for me to fit, feel safe, and sleep, you know because I’m a fucking hobbit. Anyway, I have made it comfortable. Decorated with white Christmas lights around the rectangular rim of my closet ceiling. A battery- operated candle on the shelf above stays lit all night long. There are two blankets that separate my hip bones from the hard wood floor and the same Teddy bear I brought with me to Syracuse. Like always I will fall asleep here for the first 3 hours and then drowsily walk to my bed and snuggle with my cat. By the time 2 am rolls around I will be so far gone in sleep mode I won’t have nearly the same amount of anxiety that I would if I just started off in my bed from the gecko.

Cut from the same cloth; Your piece was bigger

We are six days away from your 21^st Birthday, a day I have been looking forward to since I turned 21. Being able to buy my baby brother his first drink and celebrating his Birthday until the night was young was a day I planned for years. At one point in our lives we were best friends, but somewhere along the way I got lost and instead of trying to help me find my way, the way I helped you since you were kicking in mom’s belly, you made fun of me and left me without remorse. Today along with the last couple years I have attempted to put myself in your shoes and comprehend the emotions you have faced during the last 10 years as I have struggled with mental illness and a serious eating disorder. I do this so that I can forgive you for abandoning me when I really needed you the most. But as I have now sent two text messages putting my sadness aside I find that as I try my best to give you space and understand your reasoning for distancing yourself, I find that you owe me the courteously of attempting to understand me.

 

Although you and I are cut from the same cloth, the parents I knew and the parent you knew were very different. My mom and dad were addicts. I lived with my grandma during the most important years of my life. It has come to my attention that you have been educated in psychology and so I assume that if you paid attention you would comprehend that the first few years of life are most important for bonding between mother and child. You, my brother received that from the same mother that left me for drugs. You didn’t know your father, I did though. I knew him as an addict, I knew him as the monster I loved so much, but was terrified of and when he left our family I felt the hurt deeper than you had the ability to, because I actually knew him. It was a given that due to the chaotic family dynamics that sooner or later I would struggle more than the average teen. While you grew up being given love and attention, I grew up fighting for it, while also doing my best to make you understand how important you were.

I remember vividly, a car trip in which you fell asleep and I as your big sister held your head up with one hand so that your neck wouldn’t flop to the side. My hand got tired, but my priority was that you were comfortable and resting peacefully. I loved you more than I loved myself which is something I didn’t even realize until probably this moment. If I actually realized that that was the case, I wouldn’t have been so hurt by your ignoring my messages. I wouldn’t excuse and accept your constant disregard to the fact I exist. When I was 15 years old I began working, my first paycheck came just in time for your birthday. Mom told me not to spend so much money on you, but you meant more to me than life itself, so with that check I bought you your first skateboard with interchangeable wheels. I was the one who put it together, matter of fact I was typically the one that helped you set anything up.

As I got older I realized the difference between you and I. Mom wasn’t able to admit it at the time and even if she could I probably wouldn’t have understood it. She couldn’t love me, the way she loved you no matter how many trophies I won, no matter how high my GPA or how well I treated my little brother. I did at that time begin cutting. It wasn’t something I just decided to do for the hell of it, but the pain I felt was so deep and hard for me to explain that physical pain became my coping skill. As I got older having those around me including my mother and you, use abandonment as a tactic to get me out of what you thought was a phase only pushed me into a deeper depression. I did some crazy shit as a teen and even as an adult. I didn’t ever stop thinking about how my actions would affect my family because in hindsight I thought you all didn’t care and quite honestly with each suicide attempt I thought my demise would be doing you a favor.

I just got out of treatment once again. Each time I learn more about myself, love myself some more and let go of something else. This time, I have decided to let you go. I love you Charles more than words can say and I wanted nothing more than to be a part of your big day. In my mind, I imagined after your birthday you would finally give me a chance, but I have nothing to prove. I am who I am. I hurt sometimes, okay I hurt a lot of times, but I do my best to work with what I was given. I wish you would be in the audience during my book signing, but I see that is a far- fetched idea.  And although I hold so much anger and resentment towards you, I can’t help, but wish you the best. I hope your 21^st birthday is as special as it can be. I hope that life continues to bless you with unconditional love and support, strength and the confidence that keeps you going and somehow thinking you are any better than me. I love you. Have fun and be safe. Forever and always,

Your blood sister.

I am a Product

I am a product.

No, not that kind, not the kind that can be bought

For there is no price tag large enough to show the world I am worth it

My talents, my beauty, intelligence, creativity

Most importantly my love for the human kind

No matter their religion, ethnicity, sexual orientation, shape or size

I am a product.

Born in the city of Baltimore, brought up by a village

Loved by so many for reasons I have yet to understand

My past a road block I thought kept me sheltered

But won’t allow self-acceptance to get in

I am fighting with my shadow, loathing my reflection

I tango with the Devil and twerk to Rhianna, pop lock and drop it

I am a product.

Of a future close enough for me to grasp

It’s not a dream it is reality that I can be whatever I want to be

If I stopped letting anxiety and pain get the best of me

It’s right there Kim, it’s right there you just have to reach

Tangled up in a metaphorical chain

Screaming, crying as I put my fist through the wall

Yank the Christmas light from the ceiling now sitting in the dark

I rock back and forth

I am a product.

Hey girl, I see you trying to disappear

Sinking like the Titanic, holding on to whatever you can

You don’t really want to die. You are just hurting it’s okay

Let it out, cry.

Stop it now! Back away from the toilet, no more jumping jacks

He didn’t rape you due to size

That’s on him girl, I know you tried to fight

And although you continue to starve in attempt to rid imaginary filth

Baby girl I still see you.

I am a product.

“All my life I had to fight” a different shade than the color purple

Demons oh demons telling me I am the nothing but my past

As a vicious cycle of memories on repeat

Girls scream, your nothing but a slut as they throw pens at me

I sit there seemingly un-phased

Wondering when there will be better days

I shrink into my chair until I can’t take it anymore

Run out of the classroom and make my way to the corner

Light it up, cancer stick lucky number 7

Security guard asks “what are you doing?”

I reply “securing my lungs a spot in heaven”

I am a product.

Once a gymnast always a gymnast

My life is upside down and I’m proud cause not everyone

Not everyone can rely on their hands to carry them through

I am strong like bull, built like my mother, wise from appreciated knowledge

No thanks to college

I am a product.

Always fighting with myself as if I am the enemy

Nothing I do is good enough, that’s what I tell myself

But look at me now, published author, loving mother

To a cat

Adulting on a whole nother level

Like I said I am fighting with the devil

As I am blinded by fear, fear of failing at something

I haven’t even tried

Like living life in recovery and accepting my size

Loving what my body can do for me, such hate towards my thighs

When they are simply a reminder every time they rub together

That I am alive

I am a product

Of God’s creation, everything about me designed within His favor

A little quirky, outspoken, loud, funny, wise, thinking outside the box

Standing up for what I believe in, even if I am the only one

I have nothing to lose but so much to gain

I’ll repeat again and again

I am a product of God’s creation

And if I really loved Jesus the way I say I do

I wouldn’t harm myself in so many way

But I could love myself more too

Because I am also a product of however I choose to shape my life

And oh boy am I going to conquer!

©Kim Edwards

More than Just statistics

Many people will post a status, a blog, or a journal entry telling you they wear purple “because…” and then post a bunch of facts, but I will not. I choose to be open and tell you that I wear purple, because I have struggled with an eating disorder for all of 5 years. Knowing someone personally that is affected by a statistic means more to me than just a number and that is exactly what I am, more than a number. I am a human being, a friend, a daughter, a sister, an employee, a cat mom and to many people I am a good laugh. But for the last few years I ignored the important roles I play in the lives of others to be the victim of one of the deadliest diseases. My eating disorder gave me a way out. A way out of responsibilities, feelings and flashbacks. It gave me a feeling that I was superhuman by being able to live a productive life without nourishment. I believed for years that I was able to see results from working so hard. I was accomplishing something every day I lost an ounce. But with all of this, I also believed I deserved every bit of torture brought on by myself because I didn’t deserve anything more.

It started with a diet, typical for many whom are victims of anorexia or bulimia. I dieted in attempt to erase the memories of numerous sexual traumas that I could not for the sake of me stop reliving. For year’s I stood over a toilet and purged and after I would go for a run. It was a constant battle of questioning whether I had earned the next meal only to remind myself, I ran that far and purged that food because I was going to be skinny and in the larger scheme of things invisible, hopefully. Finally, I began just skipping meals all together and then purging on the days I did eat. I felt like I was always losing, but in a sick twisted way I was also winning. My weight was down and I was accepted into treatment because I was sick. Finally, I was doing so well at doing so bad, but let me re-iterate I was doing so well! Treatment was like a gold fucking medal! My EKG showed that my heart rate was slow and unlike a normal person I was proud of this news. Even though I was slowly dying, I was getting compliments from so many on my weight loss. I had a goal and I didn’t care how it was achieved.

I am writing this story with hopes to reach one person. I don’t have to over achieve, I just have to do my best. I write this because I hope to change the conversation, erase the stigma, and remind people that this is real and it is affecting thousands including me. I figure if you are reading this it’s because you are interested. Good, that too is an accomplishment. I am in recovery, but please don’t mistake that for better or fixed, because I am not. I may not intentionally lose weight, but I’m not at the point in my life where I can eat a sustainable amount of food a human really needs to function. I still freak out at restaurants and family dinners. I don’t believe I deserve nourishment. But finally, although I may not feel I deserve life I do deserve the chance to fight which is a big improvement from last year. I wish for those still struggling I had some advice on how to be able to just eat when you are hungry and without crying. I wish I could help you enjoy food and pick it out according to what you are craving and not by its caloric content. I don’t know how I did it, I just know I did. Treatments, groups, support systems etc.…all that played a small role in my recovery, but I did most of the work. A very good friend of mine once told me “you will keep doing what works for you, until it no longer works for you, and then you will find something else” and she was right. I found my cat, and he is what works for me now. He may not be there for me in the same way as humans are, but in an unspoken way he is singing to me and I am singing to myself my new favorite song by Rachael Platten:

“Hands, put your empty hands in mine

 And scars, show me all the scars you hide

 And hey, if your wings are broken

 Please take mine so yours can open too

 'Cause I'm gonna stand by you

Even if we're breaking down, we can find a way to break through

 Even if we can't find heaven, I'll walk through hell with you

Love, you're not alone, 'cause I'm gonna stand by you”

Besides Colton, I too have become my new best friend in life. “No one can love you the way you can love yourself” is a true statement. I’m learning to love me. And for those of you needing someone to love you until you can love yourself these lyrics are meant for you as well. I may not know you, but I’ll stand by you because that’s what humans do, not statistics.

©Kim Edwards

April 17, 2016

These are my Pieces

These are my pieces, they don’t quite align

Some of them his, some of them mine

“mommy I have to tell you something

Please don’t be mad.

The boy, he removed all my clothes

Yes mom, even my pants”

Memories and words my mom then said next

Got lost with the memories I somehow suppressed

The things I should have heard, up until this here day

Along with affection got long swept away

It was not at all purposeful, she did try her best

But according to stat’s the chances are less

That an event much like this wouldn’t occur again in my life

That I’d somehow attract more men that walked by

These are my pieces, they don’t quite align

Some of them his, some of them mine

Already short circuited, the first event I forgot

Until another man’s fingerprints acquired a spot

I no longer accepted the body I owned

My sexual experiences now way overgrown

Convicted, no never, I am serving the sentence

Although it’s ass backwards, I beg for repentance

Because these are my pieces, they somehow got lost

I didn’t fight back, I cried, I gave up

While thoughts flooded my mind, “this must be love”

I detached from the image as he lingered above

But like I said a while before

These are my pieces right here on the floor

And although trauma has caused my thoughts not to align

They will be put back together, it just might take time

Because these pieces

They are

My

Perfectly unperfected

God forsaken pieces.

©Kim Edwards

September 4, 2016

The Stranger I know too Well

His eyes were so unique; I had forgotten we had already been acquainted. He mulled me over inch by inch, I could feel every stitch of my recovery unravel before me. It was almost as if he was only using my brown glass stained eyes to tare apart my soul. Instead of questioning his intentions my curiosity only peeked with a burning desire to like myself again. I glided away with the utmost yet dangerous certainty that I was stronger than my eating disorder and I could just as easily leave it behind.  But already I had fallen into the depths of his wandering hateful eyes. As soon as I gave him a second glance he had trapped me. I allowed myself to think it was just a ghost of an extremely intolerable past, but he was everywhere, he was everything, he was all I had because no one else could truly understand me, the way that he did.

It was nothing but a dream

It was merely just a chance

To believe I had a chance at love    

My second wedding dance

It was simply just a crack

A patch of life that’s rough

I brushed it off I forgave it

And then I got back up

But a different person for I had broke

And I did not know that I had

I had fallen again into my disorders embrace

It was merely just by chance

My eating disorder had caught me off guard just like every therapist and eating disorder treatment had told me it would. “As soon as you become comfortable and you stop following meal plans” or “it’s when you decide to be spontaneous that your eating disorder will surprise you”. I was the narcissistic son of a bitch that thought I was stronger than my disease, no thanks to the overpowering second half of my DNA, I hate to say it, but gosh damn it the therapist were right and all my dreams had left. That is such black and white thinking, I know, but really sometimes enough is enough and it just seems safer to give up on dreams to follow the one you initially started with, lose a few pounds. Just a couple pounds, enough to fit into those old jeans; why spend extra money on new clothes when you have perfectly good old ones. This is what my dad refers to as being Froogle. I thought to myself just a couple inches off the sides so my skin doesn’t feel bunched up when I roll over at night. Just enough weight so that when I am rushing through the store I can easily weave through the crowds like an airy ballet dancer. I refer to this as artistic precision. Really though, it ain’t no skin off my back, just muscle or is it? Perhaps its everything. Yea its everything because it is NEVER just enough!

God carefully sewed together this imperfect masterpiece that is me. Somewhere below the skin, muscle, cartilage, bone, underneath every inch of every microscopic fiber that is made so simply yet individualistically there is a girl who doesn’t give a fuck what she looks like. I so desperately hope to find her. I knew my eating disorder thoughts were so irrational for a while until I fell into its loop and somehow was able to rationalize everything. It started with me writing my food down in a journal to make sure I was eating enough only to realize I was unsure and embarrassed for caring about myself. That was followed by a bad day that ended with my disease reminding me it was right there to hold my hand and guide me down the old wood floor that erratically splinters as it guides you to the John or Lou. I am standing in front of the toilet and I don’t even have to fight the urge because images of my damaged body are cascading into the recycled water. I throw up on them and think Fuck you! I flush, and as I walk out the door I cry with shame. In my mind, I now hear “yes fuck us, we’re fucked!”

Hi Kim I missed you

I’m so glad you let me in

I was hoping for the chance

To dance this dance again

My favorite part is when you thought

You were safe to enjoy your life

As if we hadn’t shared precious moments

As a husband and a wife

I’m glad though, that I can be here for you

So glad you just don’t know

I promise this time I’ll keep you close

Kim, I will never let you go!

©Kim Edwards

Rape Validated My Eating Disorder

My eating disorder did not just come out of nowhere. As much as people would like to think that I simply decided one day that I wanted to be skinny, I’m here to set the record straight as that is certainly not what happened. The hardest part about this disorder is that due to commorbidity there are so many components to it; Depression, anxiety, agoraphobia, OCD, PTSD. I have a need to cope with all of my illnesses and anorexia just seems to be recycled over and over along with a laundry list of other self harm behaviors. People tell me “Stop with this “I’m fat shit, you are not fat and you never will be, but what you are is self - absorbed”. These people do not understand that my desire to be thin is a product of a much greater issue. Thinness represents a sense of invisibility that I can’t seem to accomplish with these curves and long muscular legs. My eating disorder serves me in many ways. One way in which it does is by loving me while certainpeople around me lack understanding and therefore having no desire to support me, not knowing that by doing this they are only validating the thought that caused this disorder in the first place. “I’m unworthy, damaged and it would be easiest for not only me, but everyone else if I just became invisible.”

The thought that I need to be invisible seems to be the most common of themes coming from my mouth in every group. In body- image we discuss why being thin is so important. In Psychotherapy, we discuss why we feel we deserve to damage our bodies in the ways we have been. And during skills groups we talk about other ways to cope with the feelings and my answer and reaction to it all is that I am disgusting, I don’t deserve to eat, or to be seen because of having been raped. By continuing my eating disorder, I am finally taking back control and helping prevent the undeniable attraction that predators have for me. Weight to me signifies the pounds of filth my body has gathered from random strangers, it also causes my curves to dissipate without me having to wear baggy clothes, because of course I want my fellow sisters to approve of my fashion sense and the work that I so carefully put into it.

Throwing up my middle finger and giving men what I thought was the evil eye proved to be of no deterrent as most of them either got angry and hurt me with their words or threatened me. Now every time I think I have the courage to stand up for myself I shrink back into the same headspace I was in when I was raped saying to myself “I am no good, just give up the fight”. The last man I trusted took notice of the scars on my arms, he asked me why I would do that to myself. I explained to him that I had been hurt in the past and fed the idea during both my childhood and adulthood that by men I was not worth anything. This message was a result of outrageous actions men took against my body, and all without permission or acceptance. I thought he understood and perhaps even had some empathy, you know, because he was my friend. Just as soon as I crawled over him facing the window to go to sleep he woke me up with a kiss. I thought to myself, that was fine. I was drunk and impaired and at that moment making out was okay. But we didn’t stay at first base, he actually decided he was going to be MVP and run to 2^nd and 3^rd and I, still unsure if that was what I wanted laid still in consideration of how far this game should go. “Do you have a condom?” he asked. “No, I don’t, but I don’t want to have sex.” As I am writing this now my mind is flooding with memories of things I forgot before when giving my statement. It’s unsettling, knowing that something that happened to your body can be erased in an instant as a means of protection, but yet it backfires because you don’t remember all the details to tell the investigator. For me at least, that’s how it goes down. Anyway, I rolled over to the other side ready to go to sleep when he wrapped his arms around my stomach and chest and attempted to insert his penis inside of me. My roommates were home and just as quickly as he had run to home base, my mind had run to shame and guilt, therefore I refused to scream for help. But for the second time in my life I fought. “Stop” I then shuddered his name in fear “Please stop, I don’t want to have sex!” I cried and he ignored me. All I could do was hold my legs together as tight as possible with hopes he wouldn’t protrude through my almighty barricade. But it hurt, he tore me, not just physically but mentally, I was no longer whole.

That’s when my agoraphobia was at its worst. Struggling with multiple diagnosis already this just magnified each one on a whole new level and nobody could reach me. I was never hungry and I began weighing in every day. It didn't just stop there. I was also cutting my breast and thighs so they would be a turn off to the next man whome ever removed my clothes. Since I was already not eating there was no point in going to the store. Luckily, at the very least I was able to make the walk to my doctors and counselors offices, but that was the extent of my adventures for 3 weeks. I became a hobbit in my own house. I left my room to pee and refill my glass with wine. I drank and slept and drank and slept until there was no more money for alcohol. I was left with seroquil and a tainted bed filled the unbenign memories.

My job seemed to provide me with some relief, well until I purposely overdosed on accident. If that’s not an oxymoron I don’t know what is. What I am saying is I drank a lot and took extra sleeping pills in attempt to knock myself out for the next 18 hours with hopes of escaping flashbacks and such, but ended up actually harming myself in the process and landing in the ICU. Oops. I ended up in the psych ward which was loud and over stimulating. I went from being locked in my bedroom sporadically peeking out the window to make sure he wasn’t there to being locked up with a bunch of other people with mental health issues. I was afraid of everyone. The screaming from other patients caused a chain reaction within myself. First I would freeze where i was, then sit down,  and then curl up in a ball crying and rocking back and forth. The rocking had been a new-found comfort the last few weeks. It was my go to when I became distraught which was not often, but always spontaneous. My friends didn’t understand it and it worried them. To be quite honest it worried me a little as well. How would  I possibly make it in the real world? I mean I couldn’t stay in my room forever. The staff at the hospital continuously told me “you have to eat, it’s part of life” and when I still refused they began using food as a bargaining tool. They obviously didn’t get it, I didn’t believe I deserved food. “So, let me get this straight, you want me to eat something I don’t deserve in order to use the computer which I also don’t deserve?” Funny.

I wasn’t allowed to go home despite not being suicidal. The hospital felt I needed additional support for my eating disorder and although they were right, they could lead a girl to treatment, but you can’t make her eat. Every day after program I would come back to the apartments and purge my food. On the weekends I would work the night shift at hospice and then come home and sleep the day away. Between all of those symptoms I wasn’t gaining any weight. I also was refusing to participate in groups and hiding food whenever I got the chance. No progress was being made because I was far from ready. In my mind, even to this day every bite I take is like fighting with the devil. I am back in treatment and this time all on my accord. At each meal I am taking a step towards a life I don’t believe I deserve, simply because of that tiny whisper in my ear telling me that perhaps when my brain is nourished, I might for once believe that I am enough. For now, I have accepted the idea that I may struggle with all these negative beliefs, but for the sake of faith I will mechanically eat and participate fully on this slow walk to recovery even though each mental illness I suffer from keeps me safe from the world which is always unknown. The rape that occurred only validates the lack of self -worth I already had, but many have told me that it’s up to me to change my thoughts and that I have a choice whether or not to believe them. Much easier said than done. But just a little tip for those reading this, eating disorders are not clear as glass, they go way beneath the surface, and as much as food may be serving a purpose for you, not eating is serving a purpose for someone else. Just chew on it. No pun intended.

©Kimberly Edwards