So, having said all that (see previous posts), why would I even consider accepting the Facebook friend request? AB sent one several months ago, along with a message (I know, who sends a message, right?) that said "its been a long time, no hard feelings." Well, you know what? I have hard feelings!! And maybe that makes me childish and petty, but so what. I guess I'm just the person who can't be friends with an ex. Not that I have so many major ones to choose from, but there it is.
But then I thought...what if he really has grown up and I can be the bigger person here by accepting his friend request. I debated it. I discussed it with friends. I even mentioned it to college friends for the shock value. The answer was a collective 'no.' I made myself go down that path of memories (maybe not in the detail I have described here) and ultimately, I told myself...no, reminded myself that that was a really, really dark period in my life. He controlled me and scared me, and even if I haven't completely processed through all of that...I have moved on. I don't need to go back there. If I did accept the friend request, it would be out of sheer nosy-ness. I couldn't imagine having a Facebook 'conversation' with him. So what would the point be? I clicked 'ignore.'
And then, out of the blue, clear sky (Ha! That was "our song." How apropos.) he sends another friend request! Who does that? After you've been ignored once, let it go!! And why would I even ever consider accepting it???????
Right now, I'm settling for just glancing at his info every now and then to satisfy any curiousity.
Showing posts with label history. Show all posts
Showing posts with label history. Show all posts
Monday, July 19, 2010
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Turn the Page
So, I was miserable and pretending to be ecstatic. AB just plain frightened me at times. I had never ever seen myself being the victim in an abusive relationship, yet that is where I found myself. I withdrew from my friends, all but stopped going to class, and drank a LOT. A lot, a lot, a lot.
Second semester just got worse. We pretty much moved in together in a crappy one-bedroom apartment. As I force myself to type that, I feel like a weight is on my chest. It is ridiculous...I knew at the time that I wanted no part of that, but yet I allowed myself to be manipulated into doing it. Why? Spring semester, I went to class even less than the first, and dropped out of all but like 2 of my classes. And I failed one of those. It was awful. I don't really consider myself as ever having been truly suicidal, but I do recall fantasizing more than once about what it would be like to fall out of my seventh story dorm room. I remember packing up and leaving to go home for the summer. I cried as he held me. I was afraid that nothing would be the same the next year; he assured me that it would. I was probably unconsiously more afraid of owning up to my parents for the...well, for the lack of grades from that semester.
Somehow, I convinced my parents to let me go back to school in the fall. I am surprised they agreed to that with as little fanfare as they did. I had reconnected with some of my girl friends, and was looking forward to going back to school. At one point, toward the end of the summer, I had given AB back his ring, not to break the engagement, but because he couldn't afford it. I was making him return it. It was around that point that he had called me at work and we got in some meaningless fight on the phone. It may have had something to do with the ring. At any rate, he ended the phone call by calling me a "fucking bitch" and hanging up on me. I snapped. He called back; I didn't pick up. When I got home from work I went on a walk, wanting to avoid the enevitable phone call that would come there. Walking around my neighborhood, I saw what I dreaded most: his pick-up turning the corner and pulling into my parents' driveway. I panicked. I am so usually the one to avoid drama, so I was in a very uncomfortable position. I made a split decision to go to a very close neighbor's house rather than going home. From there I called my mom and told her that I was done with AB and that I didn't want to see him. She convinced me to come home to relay the news to him myself.
I don't remember exactly what I said, but with the knowledge that my Daddy was inside the house, I laid out the law on the sidewalk. I was over it, beyond it, through with it. Done. And I knew that I would not be returning to it this time, period. (like most melodramatic couples, we had had a couple of trial 'break ups' that never lasted long)
He sent flowers to work (I gave them to my mom), he came to work to give me a fraternity bid in jest (I didn't accept), he had HIS MOM call to try to talk to me (please)...on and on. I went back to school, and tried the friend route. We even had a near miss or two...hooking up, but after one of those nights, he went psycho. He yelled at me and practically chased me around his fraternity house. It was all I could do to get out of there. He called incessantly. I destroyed every single piece of photographic evidence of the relationship.
Fortunately, the freaky episodes got fewer and fewer. He tried a few times to reconnect, but I was determined in my resolve. I am lucky that he was never physically violent with me, but I know in my heart that it would have gone there had we stayed together. I also know how trapped it feels to be in an abusive relationship. It is like all of the air is squeezed from your body. As sick as it is, you somehow feel committed to the farce of it all, even though you know it is not healthy or right.
I didn't know where I stood when that relationship was over. My childhood ideal of only being in love once was crushed. I felt like I had been used and put back on the shelf. But I was free. And I knew that whatever else, I would absolutely not put myself in that position again. Ever.
Second semester just got worse. We pretty much moved in together in a crappy one-bedroom apartment. As I force myself to type that, I feel like a weight is on my chest. It is ridiculous...I knew at the time that I wanted no part of that, but yet I allowed myself to be manipulated into doing it. Why? Spring semester, I went to class even less than the first, and dropped out of all but like 2 of my classes. And I failed one of those. It was awful. I don't really consider myself as ever having been truly suicidal, but I do recall fantasizing more than once about what it would be like to fall out of my seventh story dorm room. I remember packing up and leaving to go home for the summer. I cried as he held me. I was afraid that nothing would be the same the next year; he assured me that it would. I was probably unconsiously more afraid of owning up to my parents for the...well, for the lack of grades from that semester.
Somehow, I convinced my parents to let me go back to school in the fall. I am surprised they agreed to that with as little fanfare as they did. I had reconnected with some of my girl friends, and was looking forward to going back to school. At one point, toward the end of the summer, I had given AB back his ring, not to break the engagement, but because he couldn't afford it. I was making him return it. It was around that point that he had called me at work and we got in some meaningless fight on the phone. It may have had something to do with the ring. At any rate, he ended the phone call by calling me a "fucking bitch" and hanging up on me. I snapped. He called back; I didn't pick up. When I got home from work I went on a walk, wanting to avoid the enevitable phone call that would come there. Walking around my neighborhood, I saw what I dreaded most: his pick-up turning the corner and pulling into my parents' driveway. I panicked. I am so usually the one to avoid drama, so I was in a very uncomfortable position. I made a split decision to go to a very close neighbor's house rather than going home. From there I called my mom and told her that I was done with AB and that I didn't want to see him. She convinced me to come home to relay the news to him myself.
I don't remember exactly what I said, but with the knowledge that my Daddy was inside the house, I laid out the law on the sidewalk. I was over it, beyond it, through with it. Done. And I knew that I would not be returning to it this time, period. (like most melodramatic couples, we had had a couple of trial 'break ups' that never lasted long)
He sent flowers to work (I gave them to my mom), he came to work to give me a fraternity bid in jest (I didn't accept), he had HIS MOM call to try to talk to me (please)...on and on. I went back to school, and tried the friend route. We even had a near miss or two...hooking up, but after one of those nights, he went psycho. He yelled at me and practically chased me around his fraternity house. It was all I could do to get out of there. He called incessantly. I destroyed every single piece of photographic evidence of the relationship.
Fortunately, the freaky episodes got fewer and fewer. He tried a few times to reconnect, but I was determined in my resolve. I am lucky that he was never physically violent with me, but I know in my heart that it would have gone there had we stayed together. I also know how trapped it feels to be in an abusive relationship. It is like all of the air is squeezed from your body. As sick as it is, you somehow feel committed to the farce of it all, even though you know it is not healthy or right.
I didn't know where I stood when that relationship was over. My childhood ideal of only being in love once was crushed. I felt like I had been used and put back on the shelf. But I was free. And I knew that whatever else, I would absolutely not put myself in that position again. Ever.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Can of Worms
Okay, so apparently all I needed to light a fire under my ass was to just start telling a story. So, Asshole Boyfriend. Yeah.
He called, I was excited, yada yada yada. He said all the right things and asked me out. I. cannot. remember. our. first. date. I remember the before. I remember being extremely nervous and trying to watch for him out of my seventh story window. He arrived, and we went...somewhere. No clue. Cannot pull it up for the life of me. Cannot remember our first kiss. Although I know we kissed that night. It is gone.
I do remember him telling me that he was going home that weekend for his birthday. Now that I type that I can't remember specifically what day his birthday is!! Geez, my memory is TERRIBLE!!! That weekend was Labor Day weekend, and I went home a bit but back to school shortly after learning that my curfew was still in effect.
That Monday, I was thrilled when he called again and wanted to take me out to eat. I remember this specifically because I had eaten a bowl of ravioli, and yet I let him take me to Appleby's where I ate chicken fingers. I am disgusted with myself even now. One of his friends tagged along that night, it was casual. I remember when AB dropped me off that night him getting on to me about liking his friend more than I liked him. I did not like the way that made me feel. I ignored it and assured him that of course I liked him more. It was all downhill from there.
I'm pretty sure that it was only three weeks later that we were engaged. He stood in the parking lot of his fraternity house and told me that 'when you find the person you want to spend forever with, you want forever to start right now.' I was wrapped up completely. And let me stop here and interject: I knew all along that this was against my grain. But I was eighteen. I really felt that when I loved someone, that would be the only person in my life that I would love and it would all be a neat little fairy tale. I remember the first time I told him that I loved him. I had to force myself to say it. I wanted it to be true, but deep down I knew it wasn't. But I digress, so the engagement, got a ring, freaked the hell out of everyone, not the least of which were my parents, I'm sure.
I wanted to wait until we were married to have sex. I told him that and he agreed. But somehow, he kept pressuring me to do it. Finally, around week 5 of our relationship, I sprained my ankle. Bad. He took care of me, took me to the clinic, did everything I needed. I was weak. He was caring. I gave in. I haven't reflected on this, maybe ever, but I HAD A SPRAINED ANKLE THE FIRST TIME I HAD SEX. It was awful. And, although I wouldn't have admitted it then, I felt damaged. I was the living embodiment of making my bed and having to lie in it.
And, with that, I have to take a break. More to come.
He called, I was excited, yada yada yada. He said all the right things and asked me out. I. cannot. remember. our. first. date. I remember the before. I remember being extremely nervous and trying to watch for him out of my seventh story window. He arrived, and we went...somewhere. No clue. Cannot pull it up for the life of me. Cannot remember our first kiss. Although I know we kissed that night. It is gone.
I do remember him telling me that he was going home that weekend for his birthday. Now that I type that I can't remember specifically what day his birthday is!! Geez, my memory is TERRIBLE!!! That weekend was Labor Day weekend, and I went home a bit but back to school shortly after learning that my curfew was still in effect.
That Monday, I was thrilled when he called again and wanted to take me out to eat. I remember this specifically because I had eaten a bowl of ravioli, and yet I let him take me to Appleby's where I ate chicken fingers. I am disgusted with myself even now. One of his friends tagged along that night, it was casual. I remember when AB dropped me off that night him getting on to me about liking his friend more than I liked him. I did not like the way that made me feel. I ignored it and assured him that of course I liked him more. It was all downhill from there.
I'm pretty sure that it was only three weeks later that we were engaged. He stood in the parking lot of his fraternity house and told me that 'when you find the person you want to spend forever with, you want forever to start right now.' I was wrapped up completely. And let me stop here and interject: I knew all along that this was against my grain. But I was eighteen. I really felt that when I loved someone, that would be the only person in my life that I would love and it would all be a neat little fairy tale. I remember the first time I told him that I loved him. I had to force myself to say it. I wanted it to be true, but deep down I knew it wasn't. But I digress, so the engagement, got a ring, freaked the hell out of everyone, not the least of which were my parents, I'm sure.
I wanted to wait until we were married to have sex. I told him that and he agreed. But somehow, he kept pressuring me to do it. Finally, around week 5 of our relationship, I sprained my ankle. Bad. He took care of me, took me to the clinic, did everything I needed. I was weak. He was caring. I gave in. I haven't reflected on this, maybe ever, but I HAD A SPRAINED ANKLE THE FIRST TIME I HAD SEX. It was awful. And, although I wouldn't have admitted it then, I felt damaged. I was the living embodiment of making my bed and having to lie in it.
And, with that, I have to take a break. More to come.
Lighting the Corners of My Mind
So, recently I received a friend request--a SECOND friend request--from someone who I like to think of as Asshole Boyfriend. Not even deserving of being referred to by his name.
He is someone that I don't like to think about often. I certainly do not talk about him. It was my freshman year of college, and I was too green to burn. I hadn't ever had a real boyfriend, and I was ripe for the picking. Young, virginal, reeling with newfound independence...I was an easy mark.
We met in a group of friends; I didn't think he noticed me at all the first night. He was cute enough--previously a football player in JuCo. So, when I heard through the grapevine that he wanted my number, I was surprised. And, although my friend told me that she had heard some not-so-good things about him, I decided to chance it.
Apparently, he had a little reputation of being a stalker. Calling too many times, showing up when he wasn't supposed to, etc. I brushed it off as girls being stupid and petty. My internal alarms were blaring STOP! THIS IS WRONG! But I squelched them and pressed ahead. I wanted to be wanted.
To be continued...
He is someone that I don't like to think about often. I certainly do not talk about him. It was my freshman year of college, and I was too green to burn. I hadn't ever had a real boyfriend, and I was ripe for the picking. Young, virginal, reeling with newfound independence...I was an easy mark.
We met in a group of friends; I didn't think he noticed me at all the first night. He was cute enough--previously a football player in JuCo. So, when I heard through the grapevine that he wanted my number, I was surprised. And, although my friend told me that she had heard some not-so-good things about him, I decided to chance it.
Apparently, he had a little reputation of being a stalker. Calling too many times, showing up when he wasn't supposed to, etc. I brushed it off as girls being stupid and petty. My internal alarms were blaring STOP! THIS IS WRONG! But I squelched them and pressed ahead. I wanted to be wanted.
To be continued...
Monday, April 19, 2010
Let It Be
Wow. I really thought I had more to say than this. I don't want to be all dark all the time, and I guess I haven't been feeling too dark at all lately to want to come here and reflect. Just a few random observations/ponderings...
I always thought that I partied a normal amount in college. I recently have been reflecting on that somewhat and am wondering if that is not so much true. I have a friend that in college swore that she saw me getting sick in a garbage can in our dorm. A fact that I always laughingly disputed...but now I wonder, did it actually happen and I have absolutely no memory of it (or ever did. I have a terrible memory).
One I was thinking about this morning is a formal party I went to my freshman year. I remember getting ready in the dorm. I was wearing the dress I had worn to junior prom. I remember getting ready, because other girls on my hall were going to a different formal than I was that night, and I remember talking about it with them. I can remember nothing else from that night. I don't remember getting picked up, I don't remember where the party was, I don't remember what I drank, ate, said, did....anything. Did I get so fucked up that I blacked out? (well, obviously, but I passed out a LOT, and yet still could remember things that went on) Or did something awful happen that I have deleted from my memory? It is bizarre.
I have always felt a little (probably within the range of normal) awkward in social situations, and alcohol always helps. At the time, I never thought of myself as taking it too far. But more often than not, when I started drinking, I kept going until I could drink no more. Due to not being conscious. Hmmm...
Second random thought of the day. I have always been overly inquisitive. Why not just ask? A lot of times, people will answer. Well, I got my comeuppance last week. I don't want to elaborate, but I unfortunately stumbled upon some history last week (because I asked) that I believe has very subconsciously effected my psyche and has unknowingly contributed directly to my neuroses. Getting this information has made me so much less curious about things...at least for the time being. Sometimes, there really are things you don't want to know. But when you find out, you can't go back. I feel like my whole world has been rocked off of its axis. And yet, at the same time, nothing has changed. And I think that I feel oddly comforted, somewhere in the depths of being completely horrified, by this knowledge.
Life goes on.
I always thought that I partied a normal amount in college. I recently have been reflecting on that somewhat and am wondering if that is not so much true. I have a friend that in college swore that she saw me getting sick in a garbage can in our dorm. A fact that I always laughingly disputed...but now I wonder, did it actually happen and I have absolutely no memory of it (or ever did. I have a terrible memory).
One I was thinking about this morning is a formal party I went to my freshman year. I remember getting ready in the dorm. I was wearing the dress I had worn to junior prom. I remember getting ready, because other girls on my hall were going to a different formal than I was that night, and I remember talking about it with them. I can remember nothing else from that night. I don't remember getting picked up, I don't remember where the party was, I don't remember what I drank, ate, said, did....anything. Did I get so fucked up that I blacked out? (well, obviously, but I passed out a LOT, and yet still could remember things that went on) Or did something awful happen that I have deleted from my memory? It is bizarre.
I have always felt a little (probably within the range of normal) awkward in social situations, and alcohol always helps. At the time, I never thought of myself as taking it too far. But more often than not, when I started drinking, I kept going until I could drink no more. Due to not being conscious. Hmmm...
Second random thought of the day. I have always been overly inquisitive. Why not just ask? A lot of times, people will answer. Well, I got my comeuppance last week. I don't want to elaborate, but I unfortunately stumbled upon some history last week (because I asked) that I believe has very subconsciously effected my psyche and has unknowingly contributed directly to my neuroses. Getting this information has made me so much less curious about things...at least for the time being. Sometimes, there really are things you don't want to know. But when you find out, you can't go back. I feel like my whole world has been rocked off of its axis. And yet, at the same time, nothing has changed. And I think that I feel oddly comforted, somewhere in the depths of being completely horrified, by this knowledge.
Life goes on.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Background
I am not petite. Never was, never will be. The first time that I remember being big, though, was in the third grade when my dance instructor told me (and the class) that I would be the first to develop breasts. I don't really think she was taking a stab, but even at 9 years old I had the accute sense that it was because I was fat. And let me clarify, I wear my weight pretty well. If you looked at 9 year old me, you would see a girl, a little chubby, but by no means would you think 'fatty.' Baby fat.
In the fourth grade, the teacher got each of us in front of the room and weighed us. Not for announcing the info or anything, but I still question why in the hell she needed to know our weight. I weighed 100 pounds. I was embarassed.
In middle school and through high school my parents would try anything to get me to exercise and diet. They are both physically fit and my mom is petite. I felt singled out, though I would have never admitted it at the time. On a couple of occasions, I remeber making deals (bribes?) to lose XX amount of weight in a certain time and getting a $200 shopping spree. I never got the shopping spree. And still through high school, I was big, but not grotesque or anything. If I had lost 20 pounds, I would have been perfectly acceptable.
I am writing all of this to force myself to try to remember how I got to this point. I am not placing blame, just trying to peel away the layers of the onion.
One more insight for now. I don't like to do things at which I may not succeed. This extended from me not trying out for cheerleader in middle school, to not taking the $200 bribe. I make excuses for not doing things when the real reason is that I am afraid to fail. I think that my body feeds into that as well. It kept me insulated from having to do things that I may have failed at.
Of course....I could also have succeeded.
In the fourth grade, the teacher got each of us in front of the room and weighed us. Not for announcing the info or anything, but I still question why in the hell she needed to know our weight. I weighed 100 pounds. I was embarassed.
In middle school and through high school my parents would try anything to get me to exercise and diet. They are both physically fit and my mom is petite. I felt singled out, though I would have never admitted it at the time. On a couple of occasions, I remeber making deals (bribes?) to lose XX amount of weight in a certain time and getting a $200 shopping spree. I never got the shopping spree. And still through high school, I was big, but not grotesque or anything. If I had lost 20 pounds, I would have been perfectly acceptable.
I am writing all of this to force myself to try to remember how I got to this point. I am not placing blame, just trying to peel away the layers of the onion.
One more insight for now. I don't like to do things at which I may not succeed. This extended from me not trying out for cheerleader in middle school, to not taking the $200 bribe. I make excuses for not doing things when the real reason is that I am afraid to fail. I think that my body feeds into that as well. It kept me insulated from having to do things that I may have failed at.
Of course....I could also have succeeded.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Where to Begin
I have a lifetime of neuroses to regurgitate. I don't know how to start. Maybe I'll start in the middle and then pick it all apart. Again, having no formal therapy on the subject, I'm not actually sure how to address myself. I don't like saying 'I have bullemia,' because I think that it is less something that I have and is more something that I am. But I really don't like the sound of 'I'm bullemic.' I just don't like the word. It's not pretty.
And then where do I even fall into that? I'm a recovering bullemic? I'm a bullemic on a break? A bullemic once removed? Will I ever not be bullemic, even if I am not practicing? I don't know.
Here's what I do know. I don't remember exactly how old I was the first time I made myself throw up. I was old enough to know exactly what I was doing, so 13 or 14. I knew what bullemia was, and I was desperate to try it. When I was finally successful, I was ecstatic. And then, I really just flirted with it on and off. A few times, here and there, in high school, and even less in college. Thinking back on it, I really think that some part of me assumed that I would become a full-fledged, card carrying bullemic when I went to college. But it didn't really stick then either. Maybe I liked myself just enough to keep it at bay? Maybe I was just terrified of losing my teeth?
It took until I was 30 for it to rear its ugly head again. And I let it fully envelop me. And I couldn't stop. For nearly two years.
Now, I haven't thrown up in three months. A victory, for sure. But I fear that it is just below the surface, waiting for a weak moment to resurface. So I am here to process, to confess, and to recover myself.
And then where do I even fall into that? I'm a recovering bullemic? I'm a bullemic on a break? A bullemic once removed? Will I ever not be bullemic, even if I am not practicing? I don't know.
Here's what I do know. I don't remember exactly how old I was the first time I made myself throw up. I was old enough to know exactly what I was doing, so 13 or 14. I knew what bullemia was, and I was desperate to try it. When I was finally successful, I was ecstatic. And then, I really just flirted with it on and off. A few times, here and there, in high school, and even less in college. Thinking back on it, I really think that some part of me assumed that I would become a full-fledged, card carrying bullemic when I went to college. But it didn't really stick then either. Maybe I liked myself just enough to keep it at bay? Maybe I was just terrified of losing my teeth?
It took until I was 30 for it to rear its ugly head again. And I let it fully envelop me. And I couldn't stop. For nearly two years.
Now, I haven't thrown up in three months. A victory, for sure. But I fear that it is just below the surface, waiting for a weak moment to resurface. So I am here to process, to confess, and to recover myself.
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