I used to think of the phrase “on the wagon” in the context of 12-step programs. I pictured the wagon as a sort of a hayride with several people on board. They held on to each other and reached for anyone who seemed in danger of falling off. In keeping with what I’ve heard about the tenets of 12-step programs, I guess that the driver of the rough-riding hayride represented the Higher Power. The horses drawing the wagon were chance, that which not even the strongest faith can prepare you for.

My image of the wagon has drastically changed since trying to stay on it, myself, in abstaining from the destructive binge/purge cycle. The wagon is now a glorified wheelbarrow, a rickety platform with one giant wheel on either side, and a single handle in the front. I am the only rider. The wagon is placed on the top of a bumpy hill, is given a mighty shove, and rolls at increasing acceleration. It’s like a kamikaze toboggan that’s impossible to steer.

Yeah. Well, the wheelbarrow bucked me off. Hit a rock and sped out from under me, rolled down the hill and crashed into a tree. My wagon isn’t much more than kindling at this point, and I’m still on the hill. Altogether off the wagon, so to speak.

I’m no longer in the thick of my recent period of Wagnerian Sturm und Drang, but I can’t say that’s a good thing. I’ve lost more battles than I’ve been reporting, and what upsets me the most is that ... well ... See, I’m not very upset about it. Things are supposed to be hard right now. I don’t feel like I’m getting anything done anymore. I’m just sitting on the hill.

I feel like a hypocrite. I’ve never been one to encourage destructive behavior just to maintain an internal status quo, but that’s exactly what I’m doing. I was disappointed in myself at first, but it’s not having that effect on me anymore.

That sucks. I should be way more upset about this.

Overall, I’m still fighting, and I think I’m getting better. I no longer do it habitually as I used to, the binge/purge manifests out of some kind of emotional response. Nothing has happened, per se, to make me fall off the wagon. All this rumination has given me a much different perspective on it now.

What I’ve realized:

The days that I find it most difficult to resist the cycle is not when I melodramatically think of myself as an ugly speck of nothing, (thought that's a factor, of course,) but when I’m feeling unexpectedly beautiful, electric, and happy. The days when I love my smile and think my belly is the cutest thing goin’. I love being looked at and I love being in the world. Those are the days when I puke. What the fuck is that about?

On those days, I swear that colors are brighter for me than for everyone else, and my entire body feels so tingly and I feel so wonderful that I eventually can’t stand to be in my own skin. Above all, I can’t STAND the feeling of food in my stomach. I purge to stabilize. Either that, or some little voice tells me that I must be insane to be so excited to be me.

So, DING! That’s my little over-the-head lightbulb for this week.

I’m tempted to milk some refrigerator-related lightbulb metaphor, in which the lightbulb glows when the door opens and dims when it shuts, but I can’t really think of where I’d go with that. Something about awareness and such, I'm sure. There are a number of roads, and they all seem pretty dumb. A refrigerator? Come on.

I'm starting to wonder if gaping loneliness is part of the human condition, and that fulfilling circumstances just serve as diversions from that "natural" state. That's not something I've ever wanted to believe.

I don't feel overly sad all the time. I don't stand around shaking my fists and crying, "I just can't take it anymore!" That's not my style. But I'm a little tempted to try it. Oh I whine a bit, sure, but I still go out, I have fun, I feel joy.

I don’t know why it took so long for me to admit this, but I need help. I need to talk to an expert, preferably someone with personal experience I can relate to. I have friends to talk to, but though I know they don’t judge me, I always feel slightly self-conscious, slightly apologetic about breaching the subject. It makes me feel so bloody boring. I suppose it would help to have a completely objective listener, in a setting where I’m expected to talk about all my bullshit.

Thing is? I don’t want to seek help. I just don’t. The thought of sitting in a room with a stranger and listening to myself talk makes me want to barf. (Hee! Sorry, couldn't resist.) I know that’s not what it’s about, and I know I’m AGAIN being hypocritical since (a) I would agree that anyone else in my position should get “professional help” (I hate that phrase), and (b) I’m thinking of becoming a counselor, myself. It would be misguided and irresponsible of me to pursue a career in something that I don’t personally support.

It’s not that I don’t support the field of psychology/psychiatry/psychoshit. I do. It’s just that right now, I really don’t see how anyone else can tell me anything I haven’t told myself already. I know that’s a stupid, blind comment like “it’s always the last place you look” or “it’s the last shot of tequila that’ll getcha.” I know I’m being babyish and irrational. I don’t care. I don’t wanna. Waaaaa.

I know, I know. Bite the bullet, kid. Call a fucking doctor.

I will. Maybe tomorrow. But I won’t like it.

~ Last Five Entries ~

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

One-Armed Paper Hanger Earns her Wings - 07.29.05

Sugar & Lemon - 07.28.05

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