Just a note: Some of you might find this account a bit triggery, especially if you're struggling with self harm and/or an eating disorder. As always, only read this if you feel strong enough to - and talk to someone if you're affected by it. Take care xxx Rachel

My Life So Far

If you plan to read this book to get ideas of more, and more drastic things to do, to get attention, or to be different, put it down right now. If you don't like foul language I don't recommend this book, because I'll hold nothing back. If cursing will get across what I’m trying to say, I'll curse. If you plan to read it so that you can make fun of just how f****d up people are who cut or do drugs or have eating disorders, stop reading. If you plan to read this book so that you can learn about eating disorders and substance abuse and "self injury" as it's often called, from a medical perspective, I recommend you pick up a medical book. I am not a doctor. I want to be a psychologist, but I'm not one yet. I cannot give you the case studies and diagnoses that you may or may not be looking for. However, if you are reading this because you want to help someone you know who is going through problems similar to mine, or if you yourself are, and you want help, I commend you. I cannot tell you anyone’s story but my own, but I will. This is not in any way a pleasant story, but it's mine. So don't say I didn't warn you.

As I sit here with my 4th cup of coffee in about 3 hours, watching the world go by, I'm looking back at my life so far with a certain sort of resentment. I look to whatever god or gods there may or not be and I ask why. I was always something of a happy child. My family was never rich, but we didn't want for much. Our house wasn't enormous, but it was pretty big. I may not have been the most popular kid, but I was happy with the friends that I had.

My sister is disabled. She has Cerebral Palsy. Or in laymen's terms, she didn't get enough oxygen to her brain when she was born, so she's in a wheelchair. But she's been that way since before I was born, so I've never known the difference. It's still hard. The extra attention she gets, the screaming fits over the tiniest things, they make life difficult. But I don't mind that much. I'm pretty withdrawn with people other than my friends, and the people that pay her a whole lot of attention generally aren't the kind of people that I would socialize with anyway. When she screams I simply slip on a pair of headphones, and drift away to whatever music my current mood allows.

My father is an alcoholic. He's been an alcoholic my entire life, an abusive alcoholic. Now you're probably expecting some tear-jerking account of how I spent my life afraid of my dad, or a detailed collection of memories of being molested or raped or beaten by my own father. And I'd give it to you, if anything like that had actually happened. But I stopped talking to him long ago. My mom told him to stop drinking or move out, and he chose alcohol over me. Oops?

Now I've embellished my fair share of stories; Added bits here and there to make myself seem more interesting, but not now. That is one thing I'm not allowing myself to do in the writing of this book. So I'm not going to lie. My dad never touched me inappropriately. I was never raped and my dad rarely hit me. But he screamed. He came home drunk and he screamed. Holy shit did he scream. By the time I got to 1st grade he had me thoroughly convinced that I was fat, and ugly, and stupid, and would never amount to anything. I was 6 years old.

Now I'm not blaming all of this on my father. That would be such a pathetically popular and overused excuse. It would be so easy to pin this all on dear old dad, if I weren't so desperately searching for something more. As Marya Hornbacher says in Wasted, "It would be very easy to blame all this on my parents, If I weren't so painfully aware that I was also very curious about how it would feel to fall." And I was curious. Maybe I was a little too curious, but I was curious all the same. But I'm getting ahead of myself. You haven't even the faintest idea of what's wrong. So let me think for a minute.

Both of my arms, and parts of my legs are laced with scars. I've been anorexic, for about a week at a time, bulimic for the remainder of the time. I've taken Percs, Vicodin, and Valium, stolen from my sister. I've taken Adderal and Ritalin. Both of which I've crushed up and snorted. I've abused caffeine pills, I smoke, and I've stolen gin from my dad's liquor cabinet, since that was all that was left after he moved out a few years ago and started living with his girlfriend (without divorcing my mother of course). I got myself into a situation where I was afraid of being raped, out of sheer stupidity, and I've tried to kill myself four times. I obviously lived, and I'm still not entirely sure if that's a good thing. I'm 15 years old. So. Childhood is supposed to be one of the best times of our life? Enjoy it while you can, it only gets harder? Holy Shit I hope not.

I would give anything to be able to give you the date that it all fell apart. Actually, I would give anything to have that date to give you. I don't, and I don't think I ever will. I don't remember the very first time I got so mad I punched myself in the face and said I fell. I don't remember the very first time I decided I was worthless, though it was somewhere around 1st grade. I don't remember the first time I decided that throwing up was a good way to eat, but not eat at the same time. I don't remember the very first time I decided I wouldn't eat until I was thin enough to be loved, although that never lasted long.

But I do remember the first time I decided hitting myself wasn't good enough and picked up a razor. I remember the first time I actually succeeded in throwing up. I remember exactly where I was and what I ate and whom I was with. I remember what bathroom stall I used and I remember thinking "I could get used to this." I remember the first time I went a week eating less than 300 calories a day, and I remember the first time I passed out. I was in guitar class. I just kind of slumped over my music stand. I got a detention for "sleeping in class". Not that I would've wanted anyone to know I'd passed out. That could jeopardize my "diet". I liked my diet.

I have no dates for any of these memories, only approximate ages and guesswork. I know that by the time I was 14 I was completely depressed, cutting every single day, and throwing up about half of the already miniscule amount of food I ate. I had alienated most of my friends with my complete and total depression, mixed with an unmatchable hyperactivity that depleted my last energy reserves. I was sleeping about 15 hours a night. I wasn't going to school, and when I did I refused to work. I failed my freshman year and I didn't particularly care.

I often wonder how no one seemed to think anything was particularly strange about a 15-year-old girl never wearing anything but long sleeves in the summer, without arm socks or about 5 wristbands. Or how no one noticed that I "had a big lunch" every day for about 3 months. Or that I wouldn't shower before I ate, even if I had just left horseback riding lessons, because then I couldn't hide in the bathroom after I ate and run the water to drown out the sound of my puking. How no one noticed that I’d come home after school and pass out from taking too many percs, or that I'd pop six caffeine pills and stay up all night 3 nights in a row.

My mom would later tell a suspicious mother of a friend that she had watched me very carefully and would know if I was on drugs. She's fought with doctors who had personally seen my arms, laced with cuts, and tried fruitlessly to tell them "She stopped doing that". I'm still not sure whether she was in some crazy kind of denial, was trying to protect me, or was actually completely clueless. I'm not sure if this was a good thing or not. It was convenient at the time, and it's convenient now. But I can't help but wonder how differently I would've turned out if she'd somehow acted differently. If she'd been the kind of mother I could come to with this kind of stuff, or if I’d actually wanted to stop.

Now you're probably wondering how I could do so much damage to myself and still not want to stop, but you have to understand. If I hadn't been a cutter, I probably wouldn't be alive right now. I've wanted so many times to just get it over with but instead pulled out a razor. Sure I destroyed my arms the times that I cut when I was that upset. Sure I considered pushing down a little bit harder and just ending it. But I didn't. I didn't, and I was alive.

There's something strangely seductive about starvation. It's a voice. A voice in your head that calls you fat and makes you seem worthless. But that voice is good at what it does, just as I am. It will tell you in the same breath just how good you're doing. She tells you that you're getting thinner, and that you only have a little bit further to go. It tells you that she's almost done with you and then she'll let you go. She's lying. You'll find that out later. But at the time it feels so good. How could you possibly stop?

Bulimia is very similar. You get upset or sad or pretty much any strong emotion at all, and you eat. You eat, and you eat, and you eat, and you feel better. Then you finish. You finish and all of a sudden the feelings are back and there's that voice again. "Throw it up. Throw it up and the feelings will go away. Throw it up and you won't get fat." I constantly hold in my stomach. I never stop. It used to be hard but now I don't notice I'm doing it. It's very easy to suck in your stomach when it's empty. After you eat it gets considerably harder. That is usually the final trigger for me. So I throw it up and I can make myself skinny again. Then all is right with the world. All is right.

I wonder what it would be like if it were different. If I had never picked up a razor, would I be dead? Or would I have not had the suicidal feelings in the first place? If my dad had never put me down and made me feel so fat or stupid or worthless, would I have felt ok about myself? Would I have never started throwing up, or would someone else have triggered it if he hadn't? If I had a mom or sister I could talk to, or a father who was there, would I have turned out differently? Or was I doomed from birth to be a f**k-up, a druggie, a cutter, and a living breathing disaster?

Caroline Godsell