I think I’m dying. It’s a familiar feeling, one I’ve danced with most of my life. More often I wanted to die than not; now, I don’t know what I want.
My psycho-iatrist fired me. Said I belonged in-patient, needed to be locked up, and since I left the outpatient program AMA he wouldn’t treat me. Nothing makes you feel as hopeless and helpless as a psycho-iatrist firing you. I don’t think I could be any lower than I am right now.
I’ve no plans of finalizing the deal, but I have “a go” in place in case I need it. A plan, you ask? You could say a plan, but there are no details or time frames. Just a means and a desire; does that count?
I hate myself every second of every day and I find comfort nowhere. There is no hope I can scrape together to force a smile. I could call my therapist, but he’s clueless as to how to treat me, us, them, whoever the fuck lives here. Every second that dwindles by elongates into eternity. I’m so fucking hungry but I’m not allowed to eat. Repercussions. It’s hell. I would say it can’t get worse, but Dante had seven layers of hell and I’m sure I’m about to explore each one.
I’m bitter and irritable. I spaz at every comment thrown my way. I need help. I need hope. I need.
We finally cooked today. Tina made these apple dumplings to die for. Just two of them made me sick so I had to eat four so I could more easily throw them up. D. knew what I was doing because he commented on it when I emerged from the bathroom as if I was taking a shower the whole time. I just don’t get why he doesn’t bust the door down and make us stop, but, then again, it is within our power to stop purging. We just haven’t done it yet. I don’t understand why we’re not dead yet. We worked out for 1 and a half hours straight today. Didn’t eat till dinner and dessert and threw it all up. How are we still standing?
I lost sight of the point. It felt really good to be back cooking. I used to cook all the time. My specialty were chocolate chip cookies and nobody could make them like I could. It wasn’t your average Nestle Toll House recipe. Everyone who had these cookies said they were the best. I loved baking. I don’t know why it was always preferable. It certainly is more exact. There is no margin of error when baking.
I remember my first foray into baking/cooking. I was going to make pancakes but didn’t have a recipe, so I made one up. I think I was around ten years old. The pancakes didn’t turn out well. I didn’t know I needed a leavening agent, so the pancakes were a little on the flat side. I only used milk and flour. The brother, ass*ole, made fun of me and my pancakes and called them flatjacks instead of flapjacks. But the ass*ole didn’t mind eating up all of my delicious creations. In fact, the porker is still wearing food I cooked decades ago. Ass*ole.
I hate him. About a month ago I saw him for the first time in a year and he reached out as if he was going to hug me. I’m like: what the hell? Why start to hug me now after years bad blood? All I could do is freeze like a little girl. He said, “Don’t you want to hug me?” I said, “I didn’t think you would want a hug.” I haven’t spoken with him since. I don’t know what he was thinking or what kind of relationship he wants. I hope he feels good and damn sorry for making my childhood a living, walking hell.
Now I need to find a new “thing” to cook. I’ve got cheaters in the cabinets: mixes for cookies and brownies. Those aren’t fun. Cooking from scratch is fun, but the others don’t know how to contain themselves with the finished product. We’ve thrown so much food away because they don’t know how to eat in moderation or eat and not feel guilty.
What will we do on V-day when D. gets us chocolate? There are warring groups inside: those that feel they can eat it and be okay (non eating disorder side) and another group that knows the food will be purged (eating disorder side).
Back in December, the non-e.d. side order over $50.00 in truffles from a company in California called Sees Candies. The non-e.d. side thought nothing of it. They felt in control. However, when the chocolate got here, some of it was eaten, purged, but the rest was thrown out in the trash. $50.00 literally down the drain and in the trash.
When I started this post I felt like I was dying. Truth be told and rediscovered, death has had a grip on us since we were babies, babies, babies, when men thought it was okay to mess with a five year old.
Why mess with tradition? Death hasn’t come for us yet, but it can’t be long this time. It just can’t be. Like Sylvia Plath, whom I always quote, she wrote she had nine times to die. I think I’m on 8 1/2.