Peter Pan

Peter.

This weekend was one of the worst weekends to date with Peter.

He refused to give me a time frame of when the kids would be home on Memorial Day and kept saying, “When we’re done…”

He then refused to drop them off to me while I was teaching dance so I asked him to keep them until I was done (Because, you know, if he wasn’t going to drop them off BEFORE I started teaching, he would need to keep them until AFTER…common sense…)

And again, he refused.

I got a text a while later stating he had dropped the kids off at my parents’ house.

What. The. Hell.

And by this point, I was going all sorts of crazy. They had been away for a few days and they were late 2 hours getting home and now I had to drive to my parents to get them?

And I lost it. Big time.

I called my mom and yelled at her for not questioning why he was randomly dropping the kids off to her. {Not her fault…}

I fought with my mom and dad when I got to their house because the kids were swimming and I JUST WANTED TO GO HOME. {Not their fault…}

It was horrible. I felt so horrible.

On the drive home that night, my 8-year-old said, “Mom, dad says you were mad at him today but it’s not his fault. He says Memorial Day was his this year and since you never give him extra time with us, he shouldn’t have to give you extra time with us.”

So after I put the kids down to bed, I wrote Peter an email with the new Parenting Plan contract I had written up {because it’s long overdue to be updated} and I told him how disappointed I was that he had brought our children into this mess and talked poorly about me to them.

And he wrote me back some confusing paragraph about how he will ‘review it and we can come to an agreement upon said plan after adequate time is allowed for assessment of the plan you are suggesting.’ {Seriously, the oddest email I’ve ever read before with a bunch of big words that DID NOT make sense together}

Why does it still surprise me that Peter acts the way he does?

I think that’s the most frustrating part for me---that his actions catch me off guard and I allow myself to burst with anger.

I should be used to this by now. I should be able to handle things like this without getting so angry.

My therapist gave me good advice on this because I absolutely HATE when my anger escalates to the point that it did on Memorial Day. I hate feeling guilty after because I want so badly to just love and understand people and be calm and compassionate but realistically, I make mistakes and sometimes I let my anger pour out on others.

I hate this about myself. I’m trying to give myself more grace but I seriously hate this about myself.

Because I hate hurting people.

I’d rather hurt than hurt others.

But sometimes I am the one doing the hurting and I’m trying to work on that. I’m trying to recognize the anger when it’s in the beginning stages so it doesn’t get out of control. 

I wish Peter would grow up.

I do. 

But I have to remind myself that I still have a lot of growing up to do. 

And that really is the only thing I have control over.

I'm Done

I was so triggered by a friend's comment today. And she doesn't get it, she doesn't understand how telling me 'skinny people are more self aware' is so damaging.

I can't do this anymore.

I'm done fighting my eating disorder.

I tried. I failed. It wasn't worth it.

The end.

Eating Disorder Reality Check

Four relapses in one week. It's been a while since I've even considered this being a huge deal. In fact, most of the past year and a half, my struggle has been with loving myself and not so much about restricting/purging.

I don't know how much weight I've gained because instead of smashing my scale this time, my children accidentally broke it. And I feel like someone should give me a high-five for not even getting upset at them. In fact, I took it as a sign. "Wendy, you don't need a scale to tell your self-worth."

Ed tells me there's no one I'm hurting if no one knows. Or at least that there's no one I'm hurting if no one knows how bad it gets. So if it does get bad, just don't tell anyone, right? Don't reach out. Because if you reach out, they will tell you to stop.

And you don't want them to be disappointed.

Ed tells me that when they see my weight loss mixed with my beaming smile and awesome hair, they'll congratulate me and think of me as strong and capable, rather than weak and incapable.

Ed tells me that the reason my friend who's been single for less than 6 months has a boyfriend is because she is beautiful and skinny. And that the reason I have been single for almost 3 years and haven't had a boyfriend in that time is because I'm the opposite of beautiful and skinny.

That last paragraph might be my main trigger this week.

In fact, I know it is. Because I don't believe the lies about this not hurting other people. But I can't help but believe that the reason she is dating while I'm not is because she is skinny and I'm not. I honestly don't think there's anything anyone could say to convince me otherwise. The truth is right in front of me.

Ed tells me that people will take me more seriously as a dance teacher if I'm skinny, that my career will be much more gratifying and fulfilled if I lose weight and become as skinny as the ballerinas you'd see at the professional ballet.

And I don't think Ed is lying about all of the things I'm being told. I don't.
I'm still struggling because I know what a lot of the world's views of right/wrong with eating disorders are. I know it isn't considered healthy to purge meals or restrict eating.
But I don't quite know what to believe when I feel bombarded with a society telling me that my worth is equated to my size.

When I look in the mirror, I don't love what I see. I love my hair and my eyes but I don't love my body as a whole.

Will I ever love my body as a whole?

And I don't have an eating disorder support system. I don't have people who fully understand what I'm feeling or why I'd want to choose my eating disorder.

And I guess that's ok---I didn't have that for the first 26 years of my life so I don't think it's something I necessarily need to have now but it's still hard when you've experienced that support for a while and then it's gone.

Because now I'm left with my family support---which is just one big effing joke since nobody in my family takes eating disorders very seriously---and my friends---which is semi-ok because they try to understand and at least make an effort to support my struggle.

But Ed never left me. In fact, Ed has been one of the most consistent companions I've had. And I look back to the times where I was going to the gym a few hours a day and obsessing over my intake in food and I think I'd be happier being her and looking like that girl I used to see in the mirror.

Because if I'm supposed to create my own happiness, I think weight loss is a huge part of that.

I remember being happy with the path I was headed down before. I went into recovery for other people, not for myself. And if I had continued to listen to Ed, maybe I'd be dating or married or at least a lot prettier than I am right now.

Sometimes Ed Wins

I broke down yesterday.

It was one of those moments were, on the inside, I had completely lost my shit, but on the outside, I was acting totally fine.

I was fighting within myself---eating disorders are good, no they're bad, no they're good, no, no, no, no, no---*brain explodes*.

And I'm pissed. Because I have so many reasons to be happy. In fact, there are so many reasons why I AM happy.
But on the inside, when I allow my thoughts to turn to body image, I lose control. I cannot handle it. I fail at every recovery measure I've tried. I hate my body. I get angry at it for not being perfect.

Recovery tells me that my body has birthed two children, that it teaches dance and can still do incredible things.
Ed tells me none of those things are good enough, that I'd be worth something if I'd just stop eating.

Stop. Eating.

I tell myself this daily. And then when I do eat, I hate myself for making such a bad life decision.

Because even though my life is so beautiful, it'd be even better if I was beautiful. My body doesn't match the life I'm living. It isn't beautiful.

I want to be beautiful.

And the only reason I'm still fighting is because I've heard stories of the damage and the heartache. In fact, I've been those stories. I've been ruined before. But if it weren't for journals, I wouldn't remember those broken stories because right now, when I look back, all I remember is feeling so strong and accomplished and worthy.

And I want to feel those things all of the time.

A part of me still feels like fighting is the right choice. And the other part of me feels like fighting isn't worth it.

So badly, I wish this wasn't my life. You have no idea how much I wish this wasn't my life.

To feel happy with your life while fighting or not fighting inner demons, that just doesn't seem fair.

I want to feel happy without hearing so many hurtful things being said about me inside of my brain.That girl in there, she is mean. She is cruel. She has extreme standards. Not for everyone, just for herself.

Sometimes I don't get how I can be her, how I can be so concerned with loving and accepting others without being that way with myself.

Sometimes I feel absolutely crazy.

Absolutely crazy.

The Worst Day Of It All

Today was the worst day of it all.

Because although I haven't eaten in two days or gotten off the couch or changed my clothes, the ONE thing I wanted out of all this was for my kids to never be involved.

Today I found out they were involved.

Today feels like the darkest day of my entire life.

I hate myself today.
I hate everything today.

Except my kids.

I love my brave kids with all my heart.

Goodbye, Old Life

Today my life is forever changed.

Today my life feels ruined. 

I don't know if I'll ever pick up the pieces from today. 

My Burden

I had a dream last night and in my dream, I loved him. I felt the way I used to feel about him.

In my dream, we told our families we were thinking of getting back together. Most of them were happy, although some weren't.

I sent Peter a text last week that said, "I'd love to have another conversation with you in the future when it's appropriate." I sent it out of the blue. When I left the conversation last week regarding another relationship with Peter, it seemed pretty final. In my head, it was final. The words I said to him were pretty final.

But I couldn't stop thinking about it all week.

All damn week.

How would it even work? Would I be able to love him again? How would I learn to trust him?

That "meeting" took place two nights ago. I allowed Peter in my home after the kids were in bed as long as he promised to respect my boundaries and sit across the room and talk cordially.

Throughout the conversation, Peter told me a lot of things that hurt my heart but one in particular I'm still struggling with to this day.

You see, I have suppressed a lot of memories in my life. I'm really, really good at suppressing memories.

I had forgotten about a few incidents in the second year of our marriage when I viewed pornography with Peter. I don't want that to be a part of my life. I really hate that I have that truth to tell you. But the thing is, it's true and I'm owning up to that.

When Peter told me his addiction got bad after we viewed some "informational pornographic dvd's" together, I could hardly catch my breathe. The room seemed to be spinning. I couldn't focus on the other things he was saying.

I had forgotten those horrible times. I had forgotten the immature choices I made when I didn't know any better.

I had no idea about Peter's previous pornography problems. I had no idea how addicting pornography could be for him. I would never have agreed to something like that had I known what it could do to his brain.

Although I am stuck on blaming myself---in reality, I had no idea!!! In a world where I don't doubt myself, I know that my choices don't make me responsible for Peter's choices.

The problem is that I do doubt myself.

The problem is that I now remember those memories so vividly that I want to scream.

So it didn't matter that Peter told me about his testimony of God and how he hasn't looked at pornography in 5 months and how he is trying really hard to recover and how he loves me and wants us to be a forever family.

I was long gone before he said any of those things.

My brain had already detached as much as possible so I wouldn't feel so much of the pain.

How could I have not known that even viewing pornography (informational or ANYTHING) with my husband wasn't safe? How could I have NOT known that it would stay in his mind and cause him to crave it more and more?

I feel like I now have blame in my failed marriage---a large portion of the blame. But from an outside point of view, that doesnt make sense.

So why is my heart telling me it's true?

OCD: Comfort and Anxiety

When I was little, I thought it was normal to count the number of letters in a word and divide it equally in half, cutting the middle letter into two if the number of letters were odd.
I thought it was normal to make sure I stepped an equal amount of times in between each crack in the sidewalk and that if I stepped on a crack, my other foot had to step on the next crack with the exact same footing and pressure as the previous foot had.
I thought it was normal to have fears of body parts---for me, feet. I've been afraid of feet ever since I can remember.

I never spent much time thinking about these little obsessions because they were just little. They didn't hold my life back and they didn't slow me down. They have always been a part of me.

In high school, I realized how much I obsessed over eating things in even numbers and I would spend a lot of time eating my cereal, making sure each bite contained an even number of pieces. Then I would chew an equal amount on each side of my mouth.

I still didn't care though. By this point, I had recognized this was Obsessive Compulsive Disorder but it was just a part of me and everyone in my family had it to some degree. We would laugh about it often and I never told anyone about the anxiety I would feel that seemed to be associated with my OCD.

Peter noticed my OCD right off the bat. I mean, you can't have a fear of feet without your spouse finding out. It just doesn't work that way. Peter knew touching me with his feet would cause me to freak out, often times needing an extra shower or to change my clothes if it happened in certain areas of my body. Close to my hands and face were the biggest trigger areas for me.

Peter knew I had to eat even numbers of things and that I seemed to walk like a drunk person because of my obsession with the cracks in the sidewalk. He knew I counted the dashes and light poles along each street and matched them in pairs so they would stay even. He knew I would often rewrite words on a piece of paper because I didn't use equal amounts of pressure with the pen.

And he hated it.

I think he may have hated it more than I did.

Sure, it was annoying a few times but it was just my quirky way of doing things. I liked the way my OCD felt because it was safe.

During times of trauma, it becomes worse. When things are feeling stable, it seems to just lurk in the background and only controls my life to a certain degree.

Only controls my life to a certain degree... That phrase just feels so weird. And if you don't have OCD, you might not understand what that feels like to me.

A few years ago, when we had just started marriage counseling, Pan had brought up my OCD to our counselor---most likely in an effort to get the attention off of him for a second. I was really frustrated with him for doing so because I AM FINE! And although I still think his reasonings are stupid for why he did that, I am kinda sorta grateful he brought it up. Because I just don't know if I would've ever told my counselor about it.

Because honestly, I don't always notice it.

It's just the way I am.

But we began a discussion in counseling on how OCD can get worse after traumatic events. I actually looked up episodes of Obsessed on Netflix and watched them, shaking my head at these crazy people who did these crazy things for really crazy reasons. I couldn't be grouped in that same category, could I?

The answer is yes, I could. I am. To an extent, that is.

I don't recount the number of tiles in my kitchen to see if the number has changed from the last time. I don't have fears that the floor underneath me will break. I don't keep my kids inside all day every day in fear of the germs in our society. My house isn't obsessively cleaned each and every day.

But I do wash my hands a lot all of a sudden. And I freak out if they start to feel dirty almost instantly. And yesterday, my son licked my daughter's foot and I was in the fetal position on the couch, trying not to vomit from the sheer terror I felt. And if I itch my face on one side, I cannot focus on anything else until I itch the other side an equal number of times with an equal amount of pressure.

And I cannot, CANNOT handle the radio/tv volume being on an odd number. I don't care if I'm at my own house or if I'm at yours. I will make you change it up or down a notch. I will panic until you do so. And the second it is changed, my anxiety will release and I will feel safe again.

This is real life. This is my life. I'm starting to hate it. I'm still really loving it.

It is comfort and anxiety---a package deal that seems so very similiar to my eating disorder.

Comfort and anxiety. You didn't think those two things could coexist, did you?

Well, they can. And for me, they do.

I just don't want help because I fear it. I fear every second I let myself speak of the vulnerable things in my life. I fear the insecurities about how psychotic I am and how unstable this all makes me feel. My OCD is hard to talk about because it really does make me seem bat shit crazy. I'd think that about me if I were you.

This stuff seems ridiculous. But sadly, it's real. And it's my life.

I haven't even fully covered all of my OCD triggers and tendencies. Sadly, this isn't where it ends. This is just a peek into my crazy mind.

Please try to believe me when I tell you I'm not this unstable all of the time. As anxious as I get, I am still a functioning adult and you probably wouldn't know that I had OCD if you met me on the street.

Unless you touch me with your feet. You sure as hell would see my OCD if you ever touch me with your feet. And please oh please oh please, if you know me and are reading this, don't touch me with your feet to be funny. I might laugh---but inside I'll be screaming. And I'm serious about that.

One Year of Pain

Yesterday was my one year anniversary of the day Peter left me.

I cried a few times yesterday. I got so FREAKING angry a few times. I grieved my past life and my new life.

I didn't know how yesterday would hit but it hit like a ton of bricks. It felt like I was reliving that very day, a year ago. I kept replaying moments and feeling anxiety and wondering how the hell I am still standing after such a horrible experience.

I reached out a lot yesterday. I reached out to WoPA friends, my friends who were there on d-day, and I even reached out to my parents who are on a cruise right now. Everyone reached back with loving words and validation. Even people I didn't reach out to were sending me texts and emails, reminding me that I am strong and that I can get through this really hard thing.

Yesterday was hard.

Today was even harder.

This morning, I called Peter to ask him a question and he didn't answer. No big deal. He does that a lot.
But then he texted me almost immediately and said, "Can't talk. What's up?" and to any normal person, that text wouldn't have been a big deal. But in my story, that text is an extremely triggering text to receive.

Because it is almost the exact same thing Peter texted me the day I called to check on him at work. It was the very last text he sent before our phone conversation about the lies and the secrets---the very conversation where he told me he no longer cared about me. It was the last text I ever received before my husband left me.

I didn't text him back. In fact, I threw my phone across the car and tried to focus on something else the entire drive to the gym. But it didn't work.

All day, that text has been running through my mind.

Just breathe, Wendy. Just breathe.

I knew I wanted to come on here tonight and talk about those triggering moments. I knew I wanted to remember how I felt this morning. But as soon as I started to type, I decided it would be a good idea to link back to my d-day post.

And when I linked to it, I decided to read the post.

And when I read the post, I started breathing heavily and my heart was pounding and I started to sweat. I was frozen. I was frozen and my chest was physically hurting and I couldn't move out of my chair.

That day was real. There is no escaping the painful memories of that day.

I panicked. I knew I was having an anxiety attack but I've never been frozen like that. I wrote on a message board and reached out to some loving friends and started receiving message after message of comfort. I also received messages telling me things my brain couldn't even think of.
Wendy, have you asked anyone for a blessing? Can I call the temple and put your name on the prayer roll? Do you have Xanax in your house?
One by one, I did the things I was being told. The Xanax started to kick in and I called a friend sobbing, asking if her husband was available to give me a blessing.

Within minutes, he was in my home and we were talking about what had happened.

And then I received one of the most powerful blessings I have ever received.

I had recently lost hope in a few things and in that blessing, those things were promised to me. And I felt my Savior comforting me, telling me it is ok to break down and cry and be worried. It's ok to feel scared and need to reach out to others. It doesn't make me a weak person.

It just makes me a person.

There have been so many lonely nights were I sobbed and screamed and panicked late into the night. I'm glad tonight wasn't one of those. I am grateful for people in my life who can help me get through some of the roughest shit I've ever, ever had to deal with.

Tonight I am broken but I am still alive. Tonight I know that with my Savior by my side, I can handle nights like tonight.

I am going to fight. I am going to get through this hell. And someday, I am going to get remarried and feel real love. I don't doubt any of that tonight.

The triggers aren't over. They will keep happening. But I have hope that when they come, I will be surrounded with the love of my friends and family and the love of my Savior.

One year down, eternity to go.

I can do hard things.

Small Things

Let's talk.

I am seeing a therapist tomorrow.

FOR REALS.

Three months ago, when my financial situation caused a sudden halt in my counseling services, I thought I could do it. I'm strong enough to handle this life and work through my grief and figure out my triggers, right?

I don't think I've ever given my therapists enough credit because I really thought I was doing most of it on my own anyway. I didn't think my therapists were helping enough. I was the one doing the work, right? I'm the one who has to live this life every single day and work through my thoughts and feelings.

But I was wrong. They were helping.

Yes, I do the work. But for some reason, my brain just isn't working properly---and that isn't even a joke.

Sunday was a hard day. I know, do I say that enough!?! Our church lesson was on eternal marriage and I cried---as in, I CRIED IN FRONT OF PEOPLE. If that isn't a sign that I am unstable, I don't know what is. I have just become emotionally hardened and it takes a lot for me to cry. Anyway, so I was crying and my heart was hurting because the lesson hit so close to so much of my pain.

I lost my forever. I couldn't change so many things about my story and most days, all I want to do is change my story. All I want is for my husband to love me for me, to not take me for granted, to not struggle with a nasty addiction that caused him to make some pretty horrible life decisions.

I want to change the fact that he tells people I am crazy and that I took everything he had. Because I didn't leave him. Everything he says is a lie! He portrays me in a way that makes me wonder if he ever could have loved me.

Anyway, therapist! Tomorrow! Pray for me that it goes well. I am seeing the counselor that I have trusted more of my story with than any other person on this earth. I am going back to see the counselor that I made myself stop seeing when my eating disorder was the worst it has ever been. I know that is hard for a lot of my friends to understand. But I feel like it's right for this time and I guess we'll find out tomorrow.

This rambling will have to stop for now because I am trying really hard to do small things in a great way and one of my goals has been to spend more time with my kids--and so far, success!

And little successes are the very things keeping me going. Those and the occasional flowers or visits from friends.

YOU GUYS ARE ABSOLUTELY AMAZING! Every comment on my blog and thoughtful text and message you've sent has been a great thing to keep me smiling on the hardest of hard days.

I love you, friends. I really, really do.

Triggers

My story fits in nowhere, which kind of makes it fit in everywhere.

That's logical, right?

I don't like so many things about my story tonight. I don't like that triggers have started in places there were no triggers before.

What the hell? It's been a year. That isn't fair!

I got through the aftermath of Pan leaving me so quickly...but I didn't get through it at all. Like at all.

I was used to being single right away...but I'm still not used to being single at all.

It was a plague that started within the tiniest part of my being and eventually consumed me.

It consumed me, friends. It got to the point where I had to physically stop myself from driving to the store on my weekend without kids to buy alcohol. And although I did that very good thing that one time {last week}, I am not healthier now than I was then.

Because all I want to do is buy alcohol on my weekend without kids next week. And my brain says, "It's no big deal. It's one time. And for a few hours, you will not feel the things you are feeling and that will be wonderful." It would be wonderful. For a few hours, it would be wonderful. But the aftermath would be horrible. I already know that.

I can't become an addict like him. I am already wrapped up in my own world of addiction. I cannot use the same supplements he used to rid myself of pain. I just cannot.

But I also cannot keep living without healing. I cannot walk around throughout the day like everything is A-OK and expect that to heal me. It won't heal me!

What will heal me? God? A therapist? Anti-depressants?

The triggers have gotten to a point where I can't shave my legs without feeling some sort of anxiety. Because holy shit, I DIDN'T SHAVE MY LEGS ENOUGH AS A MARRIED WOMAN AND PETER ALWAYS, ALWAYS ASKED ME TO DO A BETTER JOB WITH PERSONAL HYGIENE. And that makes me part of the problem. That makes me the very reason Peter left and looked at pornography and didn't love me anymore.

I should've listened. Not respecting his simple request of shaving my damn legs is part of the reason that I am now a single woman. It has to be. Even if it wasn't the actual act of shaving my legs, the fact that I didn't respect Peter enough to do something that was NOT A HUGE DEAL makes me selfish.

But that only seems logical in my head---not in my heart. Because my heart says I tried and that I am a good person and that I am strong. My head says none of those things.

I kind of feel like vomiting but that is probably impossible since I haven't eaten in a long time. And not making-myself-throw-up-vomiting but holy-hell-my-stomach-is-in-knots-vomiting.

I hate coming on here and complaining. I want to come here and tell you how awesome things are. And the truth is, awesome stuff is still mixed in my life. It isn't all bad. It isn't all triggery and failure and crying. I've been having fun with my kids and laughter with friends but I still have a lot of healing to do.

There is so much that is still one big mess. And I'm sorry if everything seems so negative on my blog. I am genuinely sorry. This isn't me. I know I keep saying that but it isn't. I am a laugher, a smiler, and a helper. I know I am those things.

I know I used to be those things.

Am I still those things? Am I ever going to be the girl I thought I was?