Friday, October 5, 2012

holy fucking shit.



For the first time since spring I can’t eat, can’t breathe, I’m losing my grip; getting ready for the end of the world. I know it’s happening; I felt it start.

...I’m anxious that I haven’t been eating my meal plan.
...I’m anxious that I am moving 7 hours away to a city I never thought I’d live in.
...I’m anxious about taking on a new job.
...I’m anxious because I ended up in a relationship despite my best efforts.
                I’m anxious that I am really happy.
                I’m worried because I’m in love with him.
...I’m worried that he thinks I’m better and I’m not.
...I'm worried that I think I'm better and I'm not.
...I’m anxious that I can’t stay present.
...I’m stressed because I need to find a place to live, find the money to make this happen, rent a truck, pack my shit, relocate my three cats and stress them out.

I can’t eat. I don’t eat. Is this relapsing? My best guess is yes, this is always how it starts. Who do I tell? How do I say “I’m not well, I’m not better anymore?”


I turned off the TV that I rarely watch anyway because of a commercial with plastic food in it. I’ve barely eaten today but what little I have threatened to come back up. My body image has been pretty positive, especially lately, so this is not supposed to happen, right?


Why is it that my reaction to very stressful situations is to stop eating? To stop doing one of the few things that I need in order to sustain my life, to nurture not only my
body, but my mind as well. 

And of course, whenever Ed comes knocking, old habits rear their ugly heads. Restricting and binging doesn’t apply only to my nutritional habits in this sense. I ordered a new coat today.  The coat is perfect for what I predict is coming: Binging, restricting, more binging and weight gain. It’s sort of homeless-looking; truly, I look like a bag lady in it and it’s glorious. 

I left work an hour early. I’m nauseated, I’m sore, I’m short of breath, I’m beat down.

I’m finally ready to admit that I am not better, I still need support. I still need counseling and people who get it. I need my people to not act like this doesn’t exist; like it was just a phase. It wasn’t, isn’t, will never be just a phase I went through. I was getting better, so much better; I had started to believe maybe it was just something that wasn’t really serious. Is this how it works? Did Ed trick me into thinking I was cured so he could manipulate me again?

Of course, it’s Friday night and I can’t call to make an appointment at The Center. Will I be feeling like I’ve hit the bottom on Monday and make the call? Or will I tell myself that I caught myself just in time, just before I hit the bottom- grasping a ledge and telling myself that I can climb back up and do it on my own?


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