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Found 3 results

  1. I’ve started this blog about 26 times. Each time I start, I delete it because it doesn’t feel right. Usually when I write, I know what direction I want to go in or I know what’s been on my mind lately and I have somewhat of a plan as to what I want to talk about. For the past week, that hasn’t been the case. I’ve had several thoughts come and go and I’ve tried to form THIS thought several times and it hasn’t worked out. I guess part of me just doesn’t understand why I want to blog about this - it isn’t supposed to be talked about. But, alas, here I am. The first time I remember trying to lose weight, I was 12 years old. I remember weighing myself and realizing I had lost 12 pounds. I was down to 122 pounds and I was thrilled. I was in the store with my dad and I told him how much weight I had lost. He congratulated me, and then told me to keep at it so I could lose more. I think that was the first time I felt like there was something wrong with me. For 12-year-old me, 12 pounds was a lot and weighing 122 pounds was incredible. I was proud. But, my father was right. 12 pounds wasn’t enough and 122 pounds wasn’t small enough for his 12-year-old, 5’3” daughter. I didn’t hold on to that though. I didn’t obsess on it or change my life because of it. I didn’t do anything to try harder to lose weight, but I never forgot what he said. After all, my younger sister was 5’7” and weighed less than me. She’s always been tall with a slim frame and a confidence I’ve never had. She’s always been the pretty one. As I got older, I realized that I was being surpassed by my younger sister. More boys were interested in her and she had more friends than me. My dad liked her more because she was thin and was a good representation of the family. I wasn’t. I was a disappointment because I’m shorter and I’m bigger than she is. I probably always will be. When I was about 15, I started restricting calories. For me, it was more so that I would fast and not eat anything for as long as I could. I didn’t REALLY calorie count, I just tried to not eat. That would work for a while but eventually I would get too hungry and I would submerge myself in piles of unhealthy food and sugar. There was no balance. I would either eat everything in sight, or I would eat nothing at all. So, guess what happened? The scale didn’t budge. I would also forget to weigh so my check-ins would be sporadic. I was never pleased with the results. It was around this time that I met someone in an online community that was bulimic. I had never tried to make myself throw up and it was something I never DREAMED that I would do. I hated throwing up – why would I MAKE myself do that intentionally? Exactly. I wouldn’t. But the more I talked to the girl, the more curious I got. The deeper I dove into the community of disordered eating, the more intrigued I was. I didn’t know that my curiosity would lead me to a slippery slope that I would not come back from. I remember one day in particular. At this point, I had tried to purge a few times with no success. I couldn’t get any food up. I would just gag and spit until I was tired. I knew the friend I had made knew how to do it, so I asked her. I told her I was having no success and I needed her help. For the life of me, I don’t know why she helped me. Maybe we were too young to think about damaging each other? Maybe she didn’t want to be alone in it? I don’t know. But she helped me. She told me how to do it. I was going to type out what she told me, but in the interest of not teaching a reader how to purge, I’ve decided not to. That day, we went to Chick-fil-A. As I was trying to lose weight, I got a grilled chicken wrap instead of a sandwich and fries. I ate it and decided I was going to use the new tricks I learned to get rid of it after eating. It worked. It hurt, I didn’t get it all up, and I had scratched the back of my throat in the process. Was it really worth it? No. Did I keep doing it? Absolutely. This went on for a while and I eventually stopped. I decided I didn’t want to do that anymore. I kept up with that for maybe a year or two with just a few relapses in between. The next time it got bad, I was 17 – almost 18. Each time I went back to these behaviors, the worse it got. This time, it was a mixture of both restricting and purging. I would go as long as I could without eating, then, when I had to, I would eat and throw it up. During this time, I once went 3 days without eating. I was sitting in my first class for the day and I knew I was about to pass out. I started to panic and I didn’t know what to do, I just knew I didn’t want to pass out in class. I walked to the teacher’s desk and asked if I could go see the nurse and told her I felt like I was going to pass out. I made my way to the nurse’s office and by the time I got there, most of my symptoms had died down. I went ahead and told her how I was feeling and they did some tests. I offered up the information about not eating because I knew I needed to eat or this would happen again. That was the first time I was lectured about eating. The nurse threatened to call my mother and I asked her not to. I told her I had just been busy with the school musical and had been forgetting to eat. I told her I wasn’t thinking about it. She made me stay there and eat yogurt with berries and granola. I don’t know if you’ve ever gone that long without eating, but the first time eating after 3 days is very hard. It’s hard to stomach much of anything. I ate less than half of the yogurt and told her I was done. I physically couldn’t eat any more. She told me I needed to keep eating and I told her I couldn’t. She eventually let me go without finishing it. I knew from then on that I had to be more careful. When I returned to class, my teacher asked what happened and I told her. She had protein bars in her desk and gave me one. She told me to eat it in my next class and to keep eating small amounts throughout the day. I took the protein bar, but I didn’t eat it in my next class. I shoved it in my bag to save it for the next time I felt like I was going to pass out so I wouldn’t have to go see the nurse again. I had to keep this a secret if I was going to keep going. I don’t remember how long that cycle went on for. I don’t know when I started eating normally again. I do know that when I was 19, it happened again. Another cycle of the same thing. Restricting and purging. Only this time, it was even worse. I wasn’t keeping any food down and I barely ate anything outside of protein shakes and smoothies. I was dropping weight too. I was down to the smallest size I had been in years. This time I didn’t stop on my own accord – I was forced. It was also during this time that I was diagnosed with Bulimia. I never thought I was “sick enough” to have an eating disorder. I thought I was just trying to lose weight. It was normal. The time following my diagnosis, I was in denial. I stayed in denial for a long time. Even now, I don’t really think I’ve ever been sick enough to have an eating disorder. I know what my doctor and therapist said, I just don’t agree. I could’ve stopped if I wanted to. But that time, I was FORCED to stop. I had opened up to someone I was close to and she knew about my eating habits. She would check in on me all the time. I got texts all throughout the week from her asking if I had eaten, if I had purged, telling me to drink water or eat a snack. Truth is, if she told me to eat something and not purge it, I would do as she said. I don’t know why, but I listened to her. Eventually, I stopped purging altogether. I had gone over a month eating regularly and not purging my food. This is when she decided to tell my mother what was going on. Yes, I was 19, but I still lived at home and still followed their rules. When she told my mom, I was so heartbroken. I had trusted her with my most intimate secrets, and she helped me to get better, and then when I was doing fine, she ruined my life. My mother cared, but not in the way you think. She was angry. She said that I was lying - that I was making it all up for attention. She didn’t believe that anything was wrong. She yelled and got mad because I had ruined the image of our perfect family. I was an embarrassment. After that, I had to stop purging. I knew my mom might be paying more attention now and I couldn’t chance it. Since then, I’ve struggled and relapsed, but never to that extent. Not until now. Even now, it’s different. I’m not purging anymore, and I AM eating. I’m just counting calories. People count calories all the time to lose weight so this is nothing out of the ordinary. Well, that’s what I tell myself, anyway. The problem here is that I’m limiting myself to an average of about 500 calories per day. When I started, I just wanted to keep it under 1000, but as this has progressed, I’ve dropped it down to where I want to stay around the 500 mark. Some days are higher, some are lower, but it averages out to be right about 500. Apparently, that’s not healthy. I think part of me KNOWS this isn’t healthy and I KNOW it’s wrong. The side effects suck and I WANT to eat, I really do. I just can’t. Any time I get close, there’s something that stops me. The longer I go doing this, the easier it gets. I know that’s a terrible thing to say, but it’s true. As I sit here typing this, my stomach is empty and demanding food. I just don’t know what to give it. I daydream about eating a nice warm meal and feeling full, but when I think about the reality of it – the thought that I could actually eat – I suddenly don’t want those things. I feel like I’ve disappointed so many people already because of this. I’ve ruined relationships because I just can’t eat. I know that sounds dramatic but it’s true. My own therapist doesn’t even know how to help me. She’s just throwing her hands up. She cut my last session short because she didn’t know what to say or how to help and now, I’m not seeing her this week. Why? Because she doesn’t know how to help me. I’m BEYOND repair. I’m hopeless. Another one… I have a friend that won’t talk to me about food anymore. I understand her reasoning – I’m not listening to her. She tells me that I don’t need to do it, that it’s not healthy. She gives me fact after fact about how dangerous this is, but I don’t listen. No one can change my mind at this point. So, I know why she won’t talk to me about it. It just sucks because the food consumes my thoughts and that’s what’s going on in my life right now and I can’t talk to anyone about it. I’m completely alone in this and it’s my own fault. My other T made me sign a paper that said I would eat 1500 calories per day and I haven’t done it. I haven’t even gotten close. I think I’m seeing him again this weekend and he will probably ask to see my food long and I don’t know what he’s going to do. He might give up on me too. I wouldn’t blame him if he did. I know it has to be frustrating for me to never listen to what I’m being told…this is just SO hard for me. It’s to the point that food is actually scary to me. How crazy does that sound? I just don’t know what to do anymore. I’ve gotten myself stuck here and I don’t know the way out. I don’t know why I’m writing this blog. I don’t see the point, really. I guess I just wanted to get it out in the open. It seems that the more I keep this stuff secret, the worse it gets. Maybe writing this all out will help me to realize how bad things are getting and maybe I can convince myself to stop before it’s too late. I don’t know… maybe it’s already too late. Anyway, I suppose I’ll close this out by saying that I’m okay. I’m doing just fine! I’m just a bit overwhelmed, but I’m going to be okay. I appreciate all the love and support I have received here – you are all truly a blessing. It’s nice and snowy here so I’m going to bundle up and get cozy! I’ll be back soon, I’m sure. Loves and hugs, Poppy
  2. This post contains very graphic references to sexual abuse. I ask that you would not read ahead if you are not in the mind to do so. Please proceed with caution. I know what you’re thinking. ‘Poppy, this isn’t a Friday! Speaking of Friday, where the heck were you this week?’ My apologies to everyone that keeps up with my blog entries weekly or those of you that were looking forward to a post from me. I was taking a small break from AS after some events that transpired and caused me quite a bit of emotional and mental pain. I don’t feel that I really have the liberty to go into much detail, but I was very hurt, and I needed some space to heal. I am back now and hoping to be as active as I was before my mini vacation. I’ve missed you all! Now, there isn’t much to update on as far as my dieting endeavor. I have lost more weight, though, so I am headed in the right direction! My glutes are also very sore right now and I’m tempted to stand up while I type, but… my laziness outweighs the pain so, seated I shall stay! Aside from that, I have no more lighthearted news to fill you in on. This weekend has been a lot for me to process and I’m hoping that by typing this blog, I can get some big chunks of this stuff processed and I can feel better. There have been some new realizations coming to light recently, and it’s been a lot for me to take in. I started seeing a second therapist this weekend. The reasoning for two is that my main therapist specializes in EMDR and my new therapist is really experienced with DBT – both are therapies I need right now. So, I am seeing the male therapist as a supplemental therapy along with my main therapy. I know – I’m all kinds of messed up. I was very nervous about meeting with The New Guy. I already knew him and his wife before I started seeing him for therapy, and I was already pretty close to his wife, but still – I was so nervous. Also, seeing a male kind of freaked me out. I have personal issues with most men, especially men that are in some sort of authoritative position, so I was very apprehensive to tell him about everything. I was so nervous, in fact, that when we first spoke about me doing counseling with him, he mentioned that his wife could be present if I wanted her to be and I immediately said yes. I found comfort in knowing that she was sitting right across the table from me. She already knew most of the information I gave, but not all of it. The conversation took an unexpected turn and I told him things I never thought I would tell anyone. I will get to that stuff in just a minute. I’m going to go ahead and insert a trigger warning here for references to sexual assault and CSA. Please don’t read ahead if you don’t feel like you are in the mind to do so. You can always come back when you feel you are in a better place. My appointment was set for 1:15pm. I arrived at the building and parked my car at 1:14pm. I wasn’t expecting anyone else to be there, but I saw other vehicles and got nervous. I was texting The Wife and telling her I was nervous because of the other vehicles, but she didn’t respond. At 1:20pm, I finally worked up the courage to go inside. I got to the door and it was locked. I called The Wife and she came to let me inside, then proceeded to tell me what office The New Guy was in and that she had to use the bathroom. I mean, of course she did. My only source of comfort was leaving me so she could pee. I walked into the office, which was a conference room with a long table, and The New Guy told me to sit wherever I liked, so I sat across from him. A safe distance and The Wife could sit on the end to next to me. We started on preliminary paperwork and The New Guy says he can’t sit so far away from me and moves to the seat I had reserved, in my mind, for The Wife – my safety blanket. Had she not decided she had to pee, she could’ve already been sitting there. I inch a little further away because, well, a male presence so close to me made me more nervous than I already was. The Wife finally comes in from her potty break and sits across from me. Although I had named her my source of comfort, I was immediately MORE nervous. My legs wouldn’t stop bouncing, my hands would stop shaking, and my breath was shallow and rapid. I finish all the paperwork and The New Guy says to me, “So, what’s up?” I had no words to use to respond. I mean, what do I say? Do I just spit out all of my secrets, or do I say, ‘not much?’ What answer was he looking for? I responded with a “you have to ask something more specific than that,” and he did. He asked why I was there. Truth is, I was there because The Wife said she thought he could help me. I told him that and he asked why she felt that way. I darted back an “I don’t know, ask her,” and, well, he didn’t. Instead, I told him that the first 5 sessions with main T, I barely said 4 words to her, and he said he didn’t want that to happen here. He switched gears a little bit and opened up an actual conversation. I don’t remember exactly what he asked, but I remember it got us on the topic of self-harm. I told him that I am a cutter and have been since I was 10 or 11. He asked what happened to me that made me hurt myself for the first time and why I was doing it. We talked about that for a little bit and then landed on my eating disorder. After that, we moved to alcohol abuse. This is where things took a turn that I didn’t expect. He asked me about the rape. He already knew I was raped, but he knew no details of it – just that it happened. He asked if it was violent or if there were weapons involved. I said no, but that I was very intoxicated and possibly drugged and consciousness was drifting in and out. He asked if the monster that did this to me, also took my virginity – I told him no. I lost my virginity when I was 11 or 12. He seemed taken aback by my response. I guess because I was so young when it happened. He asked if the boy was my age and if the sex was something I had thought about before or if I had been exposed to any pornography or anything else like that prior to my sexual encounter with the boy when I was 12. I told him he was my age, but it wasn’t my first sexual experience. He asked me to describe my other sexual experiences to him. This is the part where it gets pretty graphic and uncomfortable and BELIEVE ME, I was BEYOND uncomfortable when I had to talk about this out loud. I was also really ashamed. This isn’t a part of my past I wanted to relive. I proceeded to tell him about the boy I knew in 4th or 5th grade. The boy that wanted me to sit with him in the back of the daycare van after school and give him handjobs. The boy that would convince me it was okay and knew I couldn’t say no. The boy that only talked to me to get his fix. The New Guy asks how I knew what to do. I say I don’t know. Then he asks if this is my first sexual encounter. I tell him no – but the other one was with a girl. He asked for details. I told him about the girl I knew when I was 7 that was mt best friend at daycare. I tell him that we were watching TV while the younger kids napped, and she leans over and asks me if I’m horny. I tell The New Guy that 7-year-old Poppy didn’t know what that meant, so that girl explained it to me. I told her I didn’t feel that way, but she said she did. We went over to lay down beside the vending machines in the corner. I tell The New Guy that we put coats over ourselves and touched each other. I don’t remember if I told him that this became a regular occurrence, or perhaps he knew from the way I spoke about it, but this became something we did every day at naptime. It was routine. Prior to this, I had told him that I didn’t remember anything from before age 6. I really don’t. My memories there are completely blank. He thinks I may have been sexually abused before then and I just don’t remember. There were more situations like this when I was young that I negated to tell him simply because it didn’t matter. He knew the base of what he needed to know. I didn’t tell The New Guy about my dad’s girlfriend’s daughter when I was 10. I didn’t tell him about how she was much older than me and when I shared a bed with her, she would give me candy to kiss her and let her touch me. I didn’t tell him about how no matter how many times I said I didn’t want to do it, she pleaded with me to say yes. I didn’t tell him about how we got caught, and she didn’t get punished. I didn’t tell The New Guy about the other guys that I obliged with handjobs and lap dances and sex. I kept to myself all the other girls that touched me because I touched them back and I knew that meant it was consensual and it didn’t matter. The New Guy tells me this was all sexual abuse. That I was abused and taken advantage of and that people have been using my body for my entire life and it makes him so angry. He said it infuriates him. I told him that I told my other therapist about this and she told me it was normal. It was normal for kids to explore like this. The New Guy says, “it is not normal for 7 and 8-year-olds to be doing things like this,” and I was confused because I was told that it WAS normal. The New Guy says even now, my body is being used as an object for other people’s enjoyment or pleasure. I’m hurting all over right now. The weight of his words sits so heavily on my shoulders that I can barely hold my body up. I didn’t know that any of this was wrong or that I was abused – I thought it was normal. I feel dirty. I feel disgusting. I feel broken. I feel so, so alone. I’m too afraid to try to uncover the memories before age 6. There must be a reason why my mind has blocked this out. I thought it was because I had a crappy memory but now.. I don’t know. I never thought much of this stuff until The New Guy asked me how I knew how to touch the boy on the daycare van. I can’t remember if he told me what to do, or if it was my idea, or if I just ‘knew.’ I don’t know where I learned it – I only remember doing it. I don’t remember if at 9 years old, that was the first penis I touched. I don’t remember if the boy was old enough to get hard, but I knew he wasn’t old enough to cum. He couldn’t ‘finish,’ so we would stop when we got close to being at the daycare. I had several memories come back to me while I was typing that out. I had to put the writing down for the rest of the day so I could process. I am here now, and I’m going to share the new memories I have. Funny how that happens, right? New memories just come flooding in. Anyway, here’s what I remember now. When I was typing about the boy on the daycare van and how he couldn’t ‘finish,’ I was thinking about how there was no ‘clean up’ to get done before arriving back at the daycare. That made me remember that there WAS clean up to be done, but it wasn’t cum – it was my saliva. At 9 years of age, I was giving a boy blowjobs on the daycare van. That thought didn’t sit well with me. In fact, it made me so uneasy that it brought back another memory almost immediately after. For a while, I couldn’t remember if this was something I wanted to do or if it was something he told me to do. I know I’ve already mentioned that, but now I remember. I remember that every day I would get on the daycare van and hope to God that the boy wasn’t there. If he wasn’t there, I was free. On the days he WAS there, I remember my heart sinking to the bottom of my chest and holding back the tears because I didn’t want to touch him, but I felt like I had no choice. I HAD to do it, or he would be mad at me. I have always been a people-pleaser. My whole life has been about making other people happy. Aside from that, I HATED getting in trouble. I have always been a rule follower because I hated it when my parents were disappointed in me. This is another reason I KNOW that there’s no way I would have voluntarily put my hands on his organ in the back of a daycare van. It’s another reason I could never tell anyone and I lied about it when my parents asked me what was going on. I didn’t want them to be mad at me. I was talking about this with a dear friend of mine last night because I was trying to process everything. It seems the more I try to process, the more parts come back to me. It was hours after I decided to put the blog down, but there was another new memory. I remembered that not only did this boy want me to put my hands and mouth on him, but I remember that he put his hands down the front of my pants and into my panties. I can’t remember if I wanted this or if I asked him to do it. I don’t know if he thought he was being nice because of what I was doing for him. I don’t know if my 9-year-old blowjobs were too stale for him and he needed a little extra play to get himself going. I have no idea if I protested this. Perhaps that will come to me later along with more puzzle pieces that I can fit together to get a full picture. I don’t know if The New Guy was right. I don’t know if this was sexual abuse. I don’t know if I can claim that I am a survivor of CSA or not. Maybe this is something I’m rejecting because it hurts or maybe I still haven’t fully processed it. I DO know that I would not like any comments to reflect that it was NOT sexual abuse. I will gladly accept the support or your opinion on if you think this was, indeed, abuse, but I don’t need the invalidation right now. This is all still very new to me and I’m still processing things. My mind is too fragile to accept any negative feedback as it will impact my thoughts too heavily right now. I feel like I should go ahead and end this post because I could probably type all day. I want to say thank you, from the bottom of my heart, to every person that read this and is sitting here supporting me. Your kindness means the world to me. I’m happy to be back on AS and to be surrounded by such wonderful people. Thank you all for everything you do. Soon, Poppy
  3. This post has some strong references to ED behaviors. Please don't read ahead if you are not in the mind to do to. Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock. I stared at this blank page for HOURS last night trying to decide how to start this blog and honestly debating on if I even wanted to post it. Time was fleeting, and I was struggling. It seemed as though all of my efforts to try to collect my thoughts were in vain because simply put – this is hard to write about. I tried to find another topic to write about today – I really did. But there was nothing going on that was worthy and being written down and this has been pressing on the forefront of my mind the past several days. I guess that’s my mind’s way of saying it’s time to deal with this and get it out in the open. It’s a funny little thing called emotional abuse. I know I spoke about emotional abuse in my last blog, but I didn’t really delve into everything that goes on in my household that constitutes as emotional abuse. I talked about how I have dealt with emotional abuse from my mother, but not so much what came from my father. My mother had more of an emotional neglect sort of abuse. My father… well, I’ll tell you about his. I’d like to say I’m very resilient and that words don’t affect me, but I’d be lying. Words hurt me more than physical abuse ever has. It has taken me a very long time to call this emotional abuse. My T has tried to explain emotional abuse to me several times, but I always deny that that is, indeed, what this is. I guess part of me bringing this up this week is because I’m finally admitting to myself what this is. I’ve always had a fear of talking about this – especially here. It’s hard to look at my situation and believe it has the same damaging effects as some of the trauma that people here have gone through. I was told growing up that I wasn’t allowed to be sad or upset because my biological parents are married. Because for some reason, that meant my life was perfect. So how could I possibly call this abuse when my life was so perfect all the time??? I developed an eating disorder when I was 15 years old. I was formally diagnosed with bulimia when I was 19. Part of me wants to blame this on my father, but part of me knows that he may not be the sole cause for my eating disorder. I know that I have other issues that factor into this, but I can’t help but think he planted a seed somewhere along the way. My mother and father both exercise regularly and eat healthy. I don’t. Not as consistently as they do. So, for that, there’s always a bit of shame around me for being heavier than them and for eating more fast food than they do. And any time I eat out, I get an ear full about it. About how I need to stop doing it because I’m wasting money mostly, but there’s also the underlying reason of ‘because you’re fat’. My dad wasn’t always the fit man he is now though. My dad was a lot heavier at one point in his life. One day he buckled down to lose weight, and he did. And ever since then, it’s been a lecture to me about being fit. But not only does he “encourage” (I use that term loosely) me to live a healthier lifestyle, he also makes unnecessary comments that drive me to a state of starvation and purging. One of my favorites is when I’ve not eaten all day and it’s 4 o’clock on the afternoon. I wander into the kitchen looking for some sort of sack or meal and I get welcomed with a, “Hey, little piggy. Coming to belly up to the trough?” To which I respond with a polite ‘no,’ and walk away hungry. He uses that one a lot. There was a time not too long ago that I had dropped a lot of weight. It was the smallest I had been in YEARS. But I was hardly eating. I was on an exercise program, but I was never hungry and furthermore, I wanted to be small. It was easier to not eat. So I would come in from a workout and grab something small so my parents would see me eating. But then it became, “Are you just eating that now so you can go eat in your closet later?” followed by an eruption of laughter from both him, and my mother. That comment lead into several jokes about eating in secret and purging. They thought it was hilarious. They had no idea that I was already hardly ever keeping any food down. There are more, but I’m sure you get the idea. Anything about food results in me being called fat in some way, shape, or form, or it leads to a string of jokes about bulimia. I can’t eat a proper meal without being judged. But my father gets mad if I talk about being nervous to eat in front of people. How does he not know that HE instilled this fear in me? The other half of his “jokes” aren’t any better. They’re more about how I also wasn’t the smart kid. His favorite line used to be “you’re a fat, stupid, loser,” but he hasn’t said that one in a while. Sometimes he just calls me ‘stupid.’ There was one day I was laying in bed, had just woken up but had my bedroom door open. He walked into my bedroom called me a ‘piece of garbage’ and walked away. All I did was exist. I hadn’t even gotten out of bed yet. While I realize these are all minor instances, when it goes on for years, it’s hard to “brush it off” and move on. To know that my dad feels so ashamed of me for being overweight and to know he thinks so little of my self-worth that he could actually tell me I would never amount to anything, hurts. I was never physically abused by my father. He’s never laid a hand on me. But his words have hurt me. So, in closing, I guess I should say that I don’t forgive him. Not yet. I’m still trying to fix the pieces of what HE messed up. The parts of me that he shattered with his words and his shame. I am trying to learn that I’m still valuable in some way or that I have some worth and hopefully one of these days, I will see that. Until then, I’m going to eat my pizza, and I’m not sharing. Hope you’re all doing well and thank you for taking the time to read. Hopefully next week I’ll have something a bit more exciting to write about! Sending happy thoughts, Poppy
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