mmmm ... clonazepam ...

I thought I was doing ok.

But I started cleaning.

Now, cleaning isn't all that bad you'd think, but I'm not the kind of person who just cleans for fun.  I'm a slob.  I'm not dirty, but I'm a 'drop everything where it is' kinda person.

I'm also a 'let's just leave that until tomorrow' gal.  Why do today what you could put off til tomorrow if it feels like there's something better to do.

So, cleaning really only happens when I'm either p.m.s.ing or I'm disturbed.  Crazy enough to need the distraction of dish soap and recycling organization.

Papi asked me, "What are you doing with all the cleaning and running around?!"

I had to lie.  "I'm just cleaning up because you can't do anything and I'd like to stay on top of it."

Papi is pretty much incapacitated and I'm needing to really take care of my love.  But I fear I'm not doing a good enough job.

i'll never be good enough for me

This is so hard to do.  I'm torn between just wanting to help Papi and just crumble because it's happened.

I want to just hold my love, but thre's pain there and I can't disturb mi esposo.  Just bumping the bed is creating pain for my beloved.

I have to sit in a different chair, nowhere near my love.  It's like I'm completely banished from Papi's space.

This is hard.  I just want to hold my love and make Papi feel better.  The only thing I can do is bring liquids, tidbits of food, check to see if the drainage is working and help my love sit up.

I feel that I need a little bit of love from mi esposo, but that's completely unrealistic, because Papi needs me to be there 100%.

it's not about me

I just want to be held.  I want my tears to be acknowledged.  I want someone to tell me it's going to be ok.

So, I stuff those feelings down with organic treats I searched for and found in this beautiful beach area of Fort Lauderdale.

The only problem is, I'm feeling so horrible about myself.  The demons of eating disorder are rearing their ugly scum sucking heads.

The mirror is being cruel again.  It's showing me some awful images and I know what it's about.  I have no control over this situation.  I feel helpless.  I feel out of control.

The only thing I can control is my weight.

There's a problem however; I no longer damage myself with starvation.  I allow the mirror to spew those vicious images at me and accept that it's all in the eye of the beholder.

I ate my healthy lunch and dinner.  I ate my desert of Dominican chocolate.

But the feelings I have about myself get worse.  Those words fill my head, "Why do you do this to yourself?!  You're only going to look more obese if you eat this food!!!"

I try my hardest to shut them up, but they echo.  They rebound off the walls of my brain to be revisited over and over again.

They have a gym here in the hotel.  That will help.  Exercise in the morning will lift my spirits and hold off the Pit of Doom of my eating disorder.

control.

No way for me to deal with this other than to just accept that this has happened.  It's all over.

My butch is 2/3 of the way gone.

My F-M is leading the way.  The majority is ruling. 

control.

My love said, "You look so sad and so fucked up."

"I am so sad and so fucked up.  My emotions are on turbo freak and I can't even handle simple things.  I also feel like I"m not doing a good enough job taking care of you."

Papi decided to share drugs with me.  A clonazepam with happy little anxiety ridding chemicals.

Meds do have a place in this world.  It allowed me to stop feeling like I was going to implode.

I wish I could do it on my own.  Alas, I can't.

But thank gawd meds are in this world.