It's like stalking but less fun and more invisible...

So.... a year ago I was planning a wedding and my escape plan from my mother. I still can't figure out which one was more stressful... Lately, she's everywhere. Not physically. I don't think she will ever be that ballsy. I dream about her. I think about her. I question my decision to stay away from her. I hate her. I love her. I whine that it's not fair that I got the shitty mom while my brothers got the nice, sweet, sacrificing mom who thought the sun shined out their collective ass.

I've had a lot of people remind me these past 10 months that this woman I've walked away from, is my mother. I've never forgotten that. I've been told I need to forgive her. I need to get over it. I need to hear her half of the story. I don't want any of that. I've spent my life hearing her half of the story - she's the victim. My father was a drunk and a pot head, my first step father was physically violent (which I have no memory of - when he left in the back of a police car, with me standing in my Garfield jammies, I thought I had done something wrong. Especially because once he got inside that car, I was alone with one of my brothers and no grown ups were there. Safe.) and the following one was "The biggest mistake of [her] life". Her parents made her become a nurse when all she wanted was to be a music teacher. Everything was done to her so that no one would see what she was doing to the small girl behind her.

I continue to tell people, "yes. she is my mother and she should have known better than to treat a small child like she wasn't worthy of being loved." No one wants to hear that. I've even flipped it and asked them, what if this weren't my mother, but an abusive spouse? Would you want me to leave? Would you want me to take my son and run and find a safe place where this person couldn't find us? How the hell is this so different?

She's everywhere right now. I think the thing that bothers me the most is wondering what my life could have been had I been encouraged and loved and nurtured and cherished in the way that my brothers were. I think I would cut that bitch if I met her. Or I would be eaten up with jealousy to the point of insanity. I hate how filled with envy I am. I hate it because I would never, could never wish my childhood upon another child. And then I realize that my reasoning is that another child might not have been strong enough to handle it.

I am strong. If there were an emotional Iron Man competition, I would beat the living hell out of almost everyone I know. I would win. Granted, I don't even feel like I'm a strong person. I deal with the aftermath and fallout of my childhood on a daily basis. My go-to response when something happens is to apologize, blame myself for it, and privately tell myself that if I weren't alive, nothing like this would have happened. My anxiety levels are off the charts to the point where even discussing going out and finding a job throws me into panic attacks and crying spells. I can't sit with my back to an open room without having to focus on my breathing. I've walked out of a coffee house because my usual seat, in the corner armchair, was occupied. If I'm so strong, why the hell am I so scared???

I hear her voice in my head at night. Never saying anything, but always implying a dare. "I dare you, Sunshine. I dare you. Do it. " I stand each day on this precipice and always look down wondering if someday, I will finally do it. Just to shut that bitch up.

This is the story of a girl...

I've had an eating disorder since as far back as I can remember. I can't remember a time when food wasn't obsessed about in my household. I was called fat throughout my childhood by the kids at school and my family at home. My weight was something to be completely ashamed of. It always has been. By the time high school came, it was a source of immense pride that I was only eating once a day, if that. I was thrilled that my lower ribs were sticking out and looked forward to the day they would nearly all stick out. I denied it though. I pretended that the ribs sticking out were ugly, but I envied each and every other girl who were effortlessly thin and continued to eat my one meal a day. When I moved out and no longer had my mother's eating disorder fueling mine, I started eating again. Not much at first, but when I ended up in an abusive relationship, I began comfort eating and now I'm at the other end of the spectrum.

Last year I had a doctor send me to an "informational meeting" about gastric bypass. I was immediately against it, but I went because I was willing to hear what was going to be said. In that meeting, I was horrified to discover that as long as it is medically supervised, anorexia is apparently okay if you're overweight. I left that session fully aware that I would not be agreeing to more. Instead, it triggered a restart of my initial disorder. Lately, I have been fighting to just eat 2 meals a day. I went a full day without thinking once about eating and was shocked when I realized that I hadn't eaten at all. The worst part about it is that I'm being rewarded almost daily for my behavior. I'm down 20 lbs since last year and when I tell people that I hear that I'm fantastic and way to go and all those other celebratory things because when you're fat, it's not anorexia. It's getting your life back. It's finally showing respect for yourself and giving yourself a chance. Why can't they see that anorexia is anorexia regardless of your size. I honestly don't know how the hell this is going to get better when everyone, including doctors, thinks this is a spectacular idea. The only person complaining is Sara, and that's because she knows that it scares me. She knows I don't want to end up bony and bird-like with the same figure as my mother. I don't want a pacemaker like my mother's because I've eroded my heart from refusing to eat.