The purpose of this blog was and is to hold myself accountable, mostly to me, somewhat to my T., and then to the rest of the blogging community. Maybe I’ve been honest and called it like it is. I don’t know. It seems those in my life are so obtuse that it only feeds my hopelessness. Can’t they see the weight loss? Can’t D. (husband) see the newly protruding ribs? How can he not know we are down to the weight we were when we entered treatment last year? Men are clueless. When I first got out of residential treatment, D. was so diligent, if not overbearing, on my eating my meals and not over exercising. Being I got out of treatment two months ago, he has settled into comfort that we’re okay.
I guess we are okay if okay means it’s normal to exercise for two hours straight on the elliptical and to binge and purge twice the same day. I guess being “okay” includes chest pain when working out, lightheadedness and dizziness. “Okay” means resurrecting food rituals, eating only certain food items, and eating off the same plate every time.
The hopelessness is mounting. The admittance to the outpatient program has been delayed, delayed, delayed, and, if truth be told and I hold myself accountable, I’m glad. I don’t want to go to PHP. I don’t want their food. There is no therapy there; it’s all about fattening us up.
The trauma memories are coming harder and faster. They are alive in the dreams and fuel the desire to disappear. I know it cannot be fixed. Who gives a fuck? Our case manager says we need to be thinking of getting a job. I could not be more overwhelmed and desperate. This is not going to work.
I DON’T want to live my life like this. I hate it, but I don’t know what else to do. I want to run from the PHP. I’ve been there before. This program can’t help me. And nobody knows how far gone we are; how we worry about each calorie. Can we afford to eat the five calorie stick of gum? Oh no!! We had two pieces. That’s ten calories. Shit. Shit. Shit.
We step on the scales before, during, and after. After what, you may ask. Does it fucking matter? We are always on the scale. We’ve had slid so far back.
It may sound like we don’t want recovery. Not true. I want it, but not all my members want it. I know the PHP does not believe in or treat Dissociative Identity Disorder, so how are they going to treat an eating disorder that my alters have? I predict, as almost happened last year, we will be asked to leave the program. I know my members will not eat their fucking food. They need to heal their trauma. We’re probably not healthy enough to do that now. Our weight is lower than it was last year when they tube fed us and we sure as hell ain’t goin’ that route again.
I don’t know; I don’t know; I don’t know. I just feel a panic, a desperation, an immediate need for help. I need my husband to know I’m not okay.
After dinner last night, I went straight to the bathroom and threw up. When I returned, D. had his head phones on, listening to his computer, completely oblivious I threw up everything I ingested. After all we’ve been through, how can he be that imperceptive? I think it’s a man thing. Our current T. seems just as stolid. (I’ll get hell later for writing that.)
We’re spiraling down fast, and I just need the world to know that it hurts, it sucks, and I can’t tolerate much more. We have no answers and the well-rehearsed smiles can no longer triumph. It’s a sad face we wear these days.
I hate myself.
Don't miss out!
Subscribe to get our latest content by email.