My therapist told me today that considering my blood tests and blood pressure dropping that I am a few weeks away from having to go into to treatment a few hours away from where I live. She said that soon we would need to have a meeting with my psychiatrist and my husband; that my psychiatrist would likely put me on new medication because I’m incapable of thinking rationally right now.
Or…I could change my disordered eating.
Well that just sucks doesn’t it? I don’t feel like I have much of a choice but she said that I’m making the choice not to change and I can choose to do otherwise. Well isn’t that just swell?
I tried to explain the draw of self-harming this way but she said that I won’t understand why I feel the need to do this until after I stop. Great…
So her instructions to me are that, since my appetite is all backwards and not working, I need to eat every two hours. I’m to eat something that “nourishes”, whatever the hell that means. She wants me to reconnect with my body by listening to what it tells me it wants because that’s what it needs. Blah blah blah…
I was hit by waves of sadness in therapy as we talked which she always likes because she wants me in touch with my feelings. The more we talked about me eating, the more sadness smacked me in the face. This pretty much sucks.
But I also loathe the idea of a meeting with my husband, therapist and psychiatrist. Ugh! No way am I sitting down for that.
She’s acting like I don’t have time to work on other things; the eating has to change now in her opinion. She likened what I’m doing to playing Russian Roulette. She said that she and my husband are watching me hold the gun to my head and pull the trigger over and over because at any moment my body can collapse on me and it will be too late.
Boo hoo. I’m not ready for this yet so I doubt this will work. It did occur to me while driving home today that I might have an eating disorder. But I’m also feeling super pissed about being pushed and part of me thinks that maybe ending up in the hospital isn’t such a bad thing. What do I care?
At the same time, I had a panic attack the other night because I thought that I might die at any second. How stupid is that? It’s like my mind can’t decide what it wants: to die or not to die. Or not to really die but to toy with dying. Part of me welcomes the cold, sterile white of the hospital. But I also know that I hate being hospitalized.
I’m very aware of the duality of my thinking. Like two sides of a coin. This side…then that side…this side…then that side.
I just ate some pizza and I already feel ill.
I may fail at stopping the disordered eating or I’ll fail at keeping it. Either way it’s failure somehow. It doesn’t feel like I can win this one.