November 25, 2005

Battle Wounds

So-- he saw the cuts, the numerous scars covering my arms like some sort of preschool art project gone awry. They have never looked this bad before. Ever. Hard to find a pure, unscarred space. i was half-awake, half-asleep this morning. He was next to me, nudging me, telling me it was time to get up. Finally fell asleep last night about 3 a.m., so morning came too early. Fighting the fact that i'd soon have to get up and face the day, i rolled over, pleading for "just a few more minutes" of sleep.

And then i felt him partially sit up in bed next to me, reach over ever so slowly, carefully and begin to raise the long sleeves of my sweatshirt. Being that i was supposedly still asleep, i couldn't move. Hoped he would stop. He didn't. Heard a small gasp, and a soft "My God, Wendy." Fuck. Now what?

hate it when he sees, when he notices. Hate that i hurt him so much with something I do to myself. He doesn't deserve that. Just as always before, whether with him or with Judy-- i fought back the tears when he covered the scars with his own hand. And something rises up inside me... fills me with terror, with dread, with anxiety. And I find myself walking down these cold and lonely hallways of my thoughts. Cold, alone. So far from His world. So far from reality. Awake at this point, i tried to pull my arm back, tried to hide beneath the abundance of blankets and pull the sleeves back down. And He held on. Wouldn't let go. Said, 'it's too late now, I've already seen it." Takes a deep breath. Says, 'you know, anyone can 302 someone else if they feel there's a need for it." I felt myself tense up, like a tightly wound coil ready to spring. "Not that I would do it," he continues. "But I could."
302? Fuck that. I am NOT going to be held in some psych ward against my will. I will not get to that point, nor allow myself to be controlled in that manner. NO ONE but me will decide that.

i don't even like looking at my own arm lately. The scars used to be comforting... in a strange sort of way. As of right now-- it scares me. i keep it covered. Don't look at it much. Maybe it's simply because i don't like see/admit the extent to which i've fallen in recent weeks.

6 weeks from today i'll be boarding a plane for Canada. And one would think i should be looking forward to it, and looking forward to the chance to finally create some sort of semblance of life beyond the walls of anorexia. Each day I awake, however, I find myself more anxious, more terrified of what the future holds.
And more determined as the days pass to reach 97 pounds again. Just to prove to myself that I can do it. To control the descent this time around. Simply because. I . Can. And they can't stop me. They can't take this away. 6 weeks left to finalize 16 years of hell. And I WANT to reach that point. I WANT to fade into nothingness. To hide myself beneath the scars and bones. If I don't get there, I know I will always wonder if I could have. I will always hold that thought in my head, and the idea that I could always go back again....

I want to stand on the edge and face death, looking it square in the eye and have the ability to turn around and deny it. To then climb my way back out of this hell I've created. Becauses then it will be my choice. I want to be at that point, that place where it is life versus death and i-- for whatever reason, by whatever means-- choose life instead.

But I am not there yet. I have not reached that place, that figurative 'fork in the road' yet. Not quite. But I'm headed there.

Posted by Wendy on November 25, 2005 8:09 AM

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Posted by: andee at November 30, 2005 8:38 AM

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