I am not okay. Right now the others are bearing down on me and I don’t know what they want. What are they trying to communicate? The headache has been horrible. I took several tranqs; what else could I do? I hate it when it gets this chaotic. I haven’t allowed any blogging or journaling and I think they might be pissed off about that. We’ve been following everyone else’s blogs and ignoring our own. I can feel them right behind my eyes and all I want to do is just cry; I don’t know why I want to cry or what I need to cry over, but there is a burgeoning need to pour my tears out.
I’ve stayed away from blogging because I didn’t want readers to know how shitty I’m letting us be. The eating disorder is back, full blown. What justification could I have for that? I miss being in residential treatment. That was the only time I’ve ever felt that any real connections to the eating, sexual abuse, and the members has been made. I felt like I made progress there. I come home to a crappy IOP and lose the foundation I built in res. treatment. I eat one home brought meal to this IOP and stay for one group. The person who did my intake doesn’t want me staying too long and stressing my system out. Too late!!! I couldn’t be anymore ungrounded than I already am. I am off the charts!
…and I’m ashamed. Yesterday I did 95 minutes of cardio; today I did 65 minutes. And there is something masochistic and self-destructive in doing so much cardio. My chest hurts and I get cold sweats. A smile breaks out on my face because I know I’m running my body into the ground. How about using my voice instead of my symptoms? But what would I say? I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me!!! I can’t get in touch with my members like I did in res. treatment. It felt so safe there, and then I come home and I don’t think any of the members knew what to do. Our res. therapist was the first one we shared things with and the world feels so unsafe and harmful.
I’m going crazy and out of my head. I can’t speak. I just revel in the knowledge my clothes are starting to get looser and hang on me. I’m ashamed. Ten months of intensive treatment and I can’t get us together.
And I’m in a panic! I feel them scrambling in my head, spinning around, crawling over each other to get out. They’re still behind the eyes.
They are overcrowding me, yet I feel so miserably alone.