I began this blog in profound pain, hoping that one day I would find my freedom from the grips of OCD and this blog might serve as hope to others if I did. One thing I never did find much of in my journey through OCD hell was success or recovery stories.
Life has become a lot easier. Some of the rituals that literally defined my existence are so long past that I forget some of them until I am reminded by my blog or other various things. I thought I would be happy when I got to this point, but I'm not. OCD is such a brutal bitch of a disease that, if you do make it through, it leaves indelible scars on you. On top of that, I have the added physical and emotional scars of my husband's abuse - which he blamed on my OCD. I was difficult to live with, so natch, abusing me was the logical option.
So, here I am, doing better with OCD without meds or therapy than some of people do with both, but covered in scars, 20 pounds heavier than I was, uncomfortable in my own skin, and back into the clusterfuck of eating disorders. I haven't really learned how to manage eating as little as I used to, especially with alcohol in the mix now, so I have resorted to my old tried and true bulimia. Beer is great for this; I get the alcohol buzz, vomit up half of the calories, and the carbonation helps bring the food up. Win.
Randomly, one day about 15 or 16 years ago in the kitchen of the apartment I shared with my ex, and best friend to this day, I discovered the ability to vomit without shoving anything down my throat. Truth be told, I was never really good at making myself puke otherwise; on-command vomiting was so much easier.
I do not advocate this. I really don't. I would never wish this fucked up relationship with food and self upon anyone, but consider the fact that I had a very bad relationship with myself, my body, my mind, and food long before I ever hit OCD's rock bottom or endured the soul-destroying effects of being heartlessly, cruelly, emotionally abused by the person I loved more than anyone else in this world. It's kind of funny, the very same person who helped me find my worth was the very same one who destroyed it.
Lesson: Do not let anyone define your worth except you. And, god damn it, judge your worth on something other than the shit I judge mine on.
Is it wrong to blame Husband? Partially, yes; the OCD was not his doing, it is a fundamental flaw in my psyche and I denied it in its infancy when I could have nipped it in the bud because I did not want anything in common with my mother. My mother has OCD. On the other hand, he chose to abuse me. He chose to use my disorder against me by designing his abuse around what he knew would destroy me with the greatest ease and efficacy. And he has stopped doing this, completely, since November of 2013. That's six months, half a year, of him not being abusive. And that should make me happy, right? I certainly wished desperately for it during the days, weeks, months, years, that he put me through a hell that I could not wish upon my worst enemy.
Instead, I feel angry. Very angry. He could have made the choice to change at any time, obviously, but he didn't. Because, as he put it years ago when I asked why he would do this to me, "it feels good, and it works." What the fuck? I've kind of been the one losing my shit since, getting enough wine in me to allow my inhibitions to let my mouth speak what my heart feels. I tell him how he hurt me, how horrible he was. I break down into racking sobs. All he ever says is, "I'm sorry. I said and did some stupid things when I was angry, and I shouldn't have." Disarming, yes? I can't tell if he means these words, or if the sight of my face bleeding all over the floor, myself, him, and everything else in a 10 foot radius of the incident that evidently prompted his desire to stop abusing me has scared the living shit out of him and made him realize that he could actually go to JAIL for what he's done to me. I sadly suspect it's the latter.
So I have all of that to process, plus my own OCD recover, plus my obvious eating disorder relapse, plus the hideous and severe scarring of the cutting I used to cope with the aforementioned abuse. Why cutting? I could never heal the words he said, the hurt he caused. That was inside, and it still is. But the cuts? I could clean them, bandage them, watch them heal. It made sense to watch something heal from my efforts. And sometimes I left them untreated. I watched the infections turn my flesh bright red, watched hypertrophic scars form, and that made sense, too. It was tangible, if awful.
Yes, I'm broken. You might read this in absolute horror, and that's okay. This story is horrific. It is awful. If nothing else in the world, maybe it will tell people of the power of their words. Words hurt. Sometimes, words even kill. Bullies come in all ages, all forms, all relationship types.
I'm so very torn. I know I need forgiveness, as we all do. Husband is trying. Does he deserve a chance? I guess that depends on how honest his intentions are. I'm trying to repair myself, my body, my mind...and this fucking relationship.
Before OCD, I was a recovered anorexic/bulimic/cutter. I had a GREAT life. I was happy for the first time in my life. But I wasn't good enough for him to love me through OCD. Yeah, it was hell, but what he did to me was worse. And now I have fallen back into the arms of the comforts I used to help me through the hell that my life was before I met him. And why not? What is the point? I've lost so much, missed so much.
Today is a rough day. I'm trying, but my god it's so hard sometimes.
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