For the record, my blog is for my therapist to read. I see no reason to make it private other than to save face for an asshole who is king amongst derelicts. And a couple of bitches along the way, too. Fuck ’em.
It’s easy to blame myself for all that happened. I did for the longest time. In fact, the first therapist Ben and I went to blamed me for assuming he’d gone exclusive with me because he chose to say, ‘You are enough.’ He said that. I didn’t ask him to say that. I didn’t even know it was secretly something I wanted to hear my entire life until after it was said.
I was the happiest woman on planet Earth when he told me that. I was on cloud nine for more than a week… that is, until he crashed me. He brought me back to Earth… no, he dragged me to the depths of Hell. Ten days later, he said, ‘Are you sure it’s okay I continue seeing Eva?’
I blew up. I suffered a psychotic break in that moment. He had said the one thing my heart desired most and then he took it back. He took it back because I wasn’t a skinny ass whore in his bed, no. I was fat. And then, when I got skinnier and skinnier, he started to regret how he mistreated me for years. He knew I was going to walk out that door and there was nothing he could do to stop me, I just had to finish getting to the door.
I was pinned. I had put a friend of mine up on my property and I was trying to wait for her to vacate it (or buy it from me.) I had given her five years to save up a down payment and I wrote up a contract, so I was following the contract because my word is my bond — no matter how much it hurts me, I keep my promises. (I don’t think I’m ever making another promise in my life because of this.)
When Ben and I broke up the first time (when he dumped me in 2018 when my ‘BFF’ told him to make up his mind because his indecision was torturing me), I tried to get her to renegotiate the contract. I offered to buy her a cheaper property after selling off my property and outright gifting it to her just so I could get out of Ben’s house. I couldn’t afford both my property and an apartment on the income I was making at the time so I thought by offering to do that, it would be equivalent in value to her and achieve the goal of providing her the opportunity to live in a country she wasn’t allergic to half the indigenous plants therein.
She had a panic attack over the idea of moving and resisted me completely. I was stuck in that asshole’s house for another two years while I waited out the contract. And even then, she didn’t plan to get the fuck off my property; I had to ask another friend of mine to call her stupid ass and tell her I was evicting her. I was too sick to do it myself at the time and this bitch had proven to me that she didn’t care about my health. Instead of noticing I was dying, she’d exclaim, ‘Look how tiny your waist is!’
Bitch, please. The circumference of my waist is irrelevant.
She even kicked out my roommates, who were helping me, this bitch who wouldn’t vacate my property in order to help me stay alive. I finally got out of Ben’s because I got another job that paid more money and three roommates to share a nice condo. That was January 2020 that I moved in with ‘the kids’ and by August, my bitch ‘friend’ Ardonell who wouldn’t get the fuck out of my house was kicking out my roommates because the blind and ancient dog needed a nail trim.
I nearly died that year. By the end of August, I found out I had mast cell activation syndrome (MCAS for short.) The doctor who is most knowledgeable about the condition is Dr. Beth O’Hara. I found as I was busting the mold in my system from Ben’s, I developed a leaky gut and MCAS in tandem. These two things made it impossible to eat anything rough in texture, like granola. It made it impossible to eat anything like pudding or peanut butter or plant milks. I couldn’t eat hardly anything without immense pain in my guts. Debilitating pain, actually, by that time. I couldn’t eat more than 400 calories a day for over a month. And even then, I couldn’t eat every day. I force fed myself the best I could.
The reason I had developed it? Because I’m stupid, ultimately. I didn’t realize I cannot process dairy in my system until I’d nearly fudged it all up anyway. I went on a diet with Dr. Death supervising me, thinking that he would keep me from hurting myself, but I was wrong. I told him how I was in pain, not once or twice but three separate occasions. The only thing I can figure is that because I didn’t cry or rate it at level 8 out of 10 to stress how much pain, I was ignored. And my last straw was when I went into that dick’s office, barely able to breathe. He offered to get me an order for a culture on whatever was making it impossible to breathe and it never came. I’m taking that jerk to court if a lawyer will take my case on.
I wanted to die. And I almost did. Except… when you’re faced with your own mortality, it doesn’t matter how big a game you ever talked whilst in good health about how you don’t care whether you live or die. You think, ‘OH FUCK, I’M DYING! QUICK, DO SOMETHING!’ And since Dr. Death failed me, I did everything I could think of to fix my guts so I wouldn’t die. It took ages and 66 supplements a day to stay alive long enough for my guts to heal so I could eat food again. I still can’t eat food as well as I used to be able to, but at least I’m at 1600 calories a day. Now, I think I’ve cured my MCAS, which doesn’t seem possible based on Dr. O’Hara’s site, but according to Dr. IMAET machine, it no longer plagues me.
The half bottle of wine in me agrees that it’s gone, by the way. I figure I might have celiac disease these days. I went gluten-free years ago, but now that I think I might have that issue, I’m going above and beyond to make sure everything I buy and consume indicates it’s gluten-free. Someone I with Hashimoto’s told me that if it doesn’t declare it’s gluten-free on the label, then it’s not.
I got so sick by consuming dairy, to be specific. My body does not do the dairy. I didn’t realize that was my problem; it started in childhood and my parents, being poor (and maybe a bit evil), never took me to a doctor for my vomiting stints. I didn’t know it because I was a young child, but every time I had incredible nausea that ended in vomiting, I had eaten something such as pizza or mac & cheese exactly 24 hours prior to being sick. I was an extremely pukey kid because that’s half of what we ate on a daily basis, being poor A.F. And hot dogs and bologna sandwiches and spaghetti.
I’ve found out that tomato makes me want to vomit in general, honestly. And paprika gives me heartburn and/or acid reflux. (Farewell, pepperoni. I loved you so much, but now I must say au revoir.)
Once I was faced with my own imminent death, I panicked. I stopped talking to just about everyone on planet Earth, focusing my limited brain power on trying to figure out how to eat enough to stay alive. My therapist assured me that if I get the nutrients from pills while I needed to, I should be alright. It’s just not the same as getting my nutrients from food, if you ask me.
And another culprit, I believe, is filtered water. I drank tons and tons of water daily, but filtered it by default because I didn’t enjoy the taste of local water (or maybe it was the pipes delivering my household water.) If you know anything about distilled water, you know it leeches out nutrients from your system. It does it to dirt, too, actually. [Never water plants with distilled water, people! It’s certain DEATH.]
I sincerely hope no one else has to put up with all this shit themselves. It sucked beyond imagination and I wouldn’t even wish this on Ben. Even now, I don’t hate that jerk. I made up every excuse I could for him, but I won’t do that anymore. It’s time we all grew up and figured out reality.