Flowers that died in the fire:

It's been three months now since I accidentally burned my house down, and I can confidently say that I am doing significantly better than I was.  

The thing is, though, I was already clinically depressed before that happened and had been denied from receiving services through the university counseling center due to my history of anorexia.  I required "specialized services," but the only actually specialized services I could find outside of the university, covered by my student health insurance, had a wait list several months long. Being me, I didn't sign up for the wait list and cut off contact with my case manager, who couldn't understand that someone outside the university counseling center who "specialized" in 20 things--with eating disorders being one of them--was not truly an eating disorders specialist.  I was told when I was first diagnosed with anorexia that I am stubborn with a will of steel, and I guess that hasn't changed. It's not a good thing, so I'm not bragging about it.  I guess I'm just baffled that a progressive university wouldn't offer services for their students with eating disorders, because heaven knows eating disorders run rampant among this age group.

Fires don't help depression, and depression doesn't help healing from the psychological "burns." I've stopped having nightmares about fire finally, but people can't talk about their pet fish without me biting back tears.  Looking through my phone photos or old blog posts, something that would usually be sweet, is now bitter as I remember the house I burned and the beautiful clothes I will never wear again.  Hell, going through the candle aisle at TJ Maxx or having a campfire makes my mind flicker back to the fire and think about what could happen if I dared tempt fate again by striking an innocent match.  I love my new home, and I am beyond grateful that my husband, roommates, and cat are safe, and usually if I avoid those triggers that bring back the memories, I don't feel residual trauma. And, well, as long as I triple check that I turned the stove and oven off or didn't put the fork in my bowl in the microwave or leave the curling iron plugged in, then I don't fear starting another fire.  The suckiest thing is being paranoid every time I leave the house that my upstairs neighbors will start a fire while I'm gone and that my cat will be trapped. I kid you not, this thought goes through my head every time I shut the door.

I'm doing pretty good in school, but I find myself forgetting meetings or not meeting as high of a standard as I should. Mostly I'm just worn out, but every three weeks or so the depression sucks me back in.  I had written this rant of a poem a few weeks back to describe the feelings I thought no one else could understand:

 i feel like im drowning in a vast ocean. my body is pulled in two directions, by the current and by the boat that pulls me by a rope, and in the struggle i am choking on the waters, unable to come up for air. more often than i want i wish that i could just cut my life vest,  sink into the dark depths and succumb.  

I promise that I am not posting that as a cry for help now, it is just me trying to explain the rollercoaster of emotions I have going on for far too long. My meds have stabilized, so I don't feel that dark anymore. Really, I'm pretty good 80% of the time. But that doesn't mean I didn't burst into tears today during a meeting I showed up to 15 minutes late because I forgot about it. 

I don't have a tidy way to wrap this up. I know I might get calls from people worried about me.  Maybe it's unorthodox to be this straightforward in public.  It's just honesty.