can you tell that i picked my poison well?
I’m not unhappy, exactly.
Just very unsettled. Very uneasy.
I feel really anxious, like something is going on behind my back and it’s going to mean something very bad for me.
I just feel not right. Off balance.
I don’t really feel like hurting myself or anything. Just…I feel defeated.
Is it weird that all I can think about is the M&Ms I ate last night? 450 calories. That makes yesterday 908. An unimaginably huge amount.
Since when do I consider something so small a binge? Binging for me used to mean thousands and thousands of calories. Whole packages of crackers. A box of frozen pastries. Five peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. That kind of stuff.
But now, apparently half a cup of ‘bad food’ is a binge punishable in the worst of ways.
I don’t know. I feel filthy. Especially since I ate it in front of my mom. I’ve never been that afraid to eat in front of people but now I feel like every bite I take around someone else is demoralizing, taking away an ounce of respect the person might have for me. I know logically no one will think less of me for eating, but it doesn’t change how I think.
I keep repeating yesterday over and over in my head. Going to urgent care, standing on the scale backwards [I looked in the reflection of a mirror. I’ve gained eighteen pounds]. Getting new pills. Getting a referral for anxiety medications [although, I don’t think I have any anxiety issues?]. Going to my therapist’s office afterwards. Saying ‘excuseme’ very politely, getting up, going to the bathroom, and carving ‘fat’ into my stomach while she waited for me. Talking to her for an hour, still bleeding under my clothes. Being asked what I cut my arm with. A tack, I told her. A tack?, she asked. Yes, I said. How deep is it?, she asked. You can see muscle and stuff I guess, I told her. Oh, she said. Her silent questions filled the room after that. How do you do that much damage with a tack? Why would you put that much effort into using something so small? Why did you do it at all?
Coming out, she looking worried, and speaking to my parents. My parents looked so fragile, like baby birds that’d fallen out of the nest. So tired and so lost. I looked away to try to keep guilt from twisting my gut. Actually, it was hunger hurting me. I hadn’t eaten yet at that point.
“Well, I’m not sure what I’m more concerned about - the cutting or the eating disorder. I think it’s time we start looking at treatment centers. Or we can have urgent care send over an escort for the mental health unit. I really think a specialized clinic is our best bet, though.” She told them. I stood quietly, hearing it all discussed. Too tired to be upset or surprised or angry. I felt like I should’ve cried or yelled or run outside into the rain. Something dramatic, but instead I just stood there, arms at my sides and waiting.
“I gained eighteen pounds,” I cut in. As if that’d save me. “Good, you needed to. You were underweight,” Mom says, barely looking my direction.
Were. Was. Was underweight. Not anymore. Normal. Somehow, I was more upset by that than hearing I’d be leaving.
I looked over the program. You have to be less than 75% of your ideal weight to be admitted for full term. I’m not less than that. I feel unworthy of being inpatient. As if I’m not low enough or ill enough. I can’t even be good enough at my eating disorder.
Looking at the guidelines, it doesn’t seem I should be there at all. Too sick to be home, but not sick enough to leave.
I wonder what everyone else is seeing when they look at me. Saying I’m skinny. Too thin. Tiny. When I look at myself, I see the same reflection I did when I was 180 pounds. Same body with too many curves and possibilities. Same disobedient body, growing without my permission. Same needy fucking creature.
I feel pathetic. I feel numb. I feel half here and half gone. I feel horrible but at the same time it’s muted. I feel nothing at all, really.
food;
1 sugar-free cough drop
2 cups water
I’m not unhappy, exactly.
Just very unsettled. Very uneasy.
I feel really anxious, like something is going on behind my back and it’s going to mean something very bad for me.
I just feel not right. Off balance.
I don’t really feel like hurting myself or anything. Just…I feel defeated.
Is it weird that all I can think about is the M&Ms I ate last night? 450 calories. That makes yesterday 908. An unimaginably huge amount.
Since when do I consider something so small a binge? Binging for me used to mean thousands and thousands of calories. Whole packages of crackers. A box of frozen pastries. Five peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. That kind of stuff.
But now, apparently half a cup of ‘bad food’ is a binge punishable in the worst of ways.
I don’t know. I feel filthy. Especially since I ate it in front of my mom. I’ve never been that afraid to eat in front of people but now I feel like every bite I take around someone else is demoralizing, taking away an ounce of respect the person might have for me. I know logically no one will think less of me for eating, but it doesn’t change how I think.
I keep repeating yesterday over and over in my head. Going to urgent care, standing on the scale backwards [I looked in the reflection of a mirror. I’ve gained eighteen pounds]. Getting new pills. Getting a referral for anxiety medications [although, I don’t think I have any anxiety issues?]. Going to my therapist’s office afterwards. Saying ‘excuseme’ very politely, getting up, going to the bathroom, and carving ‘fat’ into my stomach while she waited for me. Talking to her for an hour, still bleeding under my clothes. Being asked what I cut my arm with. A tack, I told her. A tack?, she asked. Yes, I said. How deep is it?, she asked. You can see muscle and stuff I guess, I told her. Oh, she said. Her silent questions filled the room after that. How do you do that much damage with a tack? Why would you put that much effort into using something so small? Why did you do it at all?
Coming out, she looking worried, and speaking to my parents. My parents looked so fragile, like baby birds that’d fallen out of the nest. So tired and so lost. I looked away to try to keep guilt from twisting my gut. Actually, it was hunger hurting me. I hadn’t eaten yet at that point.
“Well, I’m not sure what I’m more concerned about - the cutting or the eating disorder. I think it’s time we start looking at treatment centers. Or we can have urgent care send over an escort for the mental health unit. I really think a specialized clinic is our best bet, though.” She told them. I stood quietly, hearing it all discussed. Too tired to be upset or surprised or angry. I felt like I should’ve cried or yelled or run outside into the rain. Something dramatic, but instead I just stood there, arms at my sides and waiting.
“I gained eighteen pounds,” I cut in. As if that’d save me. “Good, you needed to. You were underweight,” Mom says, barely looking my direction.
Were. Was. Was underweight. Not anymore. Normal. Somehow, I was more upset by that than hearing I’d be leaving.
I looked over the program. You have to be less than 75% of your ideal weight to be admitted for full term. I’m not less than that. I feel unworthy of being inpatient. As if I’m not low enough or ill enough. I can’t even be good enough at my eating disorder.
Looking at the guidelines, it doesn’t seem I should be there at all. Too sick to be home, but not sick enough to leave.
I wonder what everyone else is seeing when they look at me. Saying I’m skinny. Too thin. Tiny. When I look at myself, I see the same reflection I did when I was 180 pounds. Same body with too many curves and possibilities. Same disobedient body, growing without my permission. Same needy fucking creature.
I feel pathetic. I feel numb. I feel half here and half gone. I feel horrible but at the same time it’s muted. I feel nothing at all, really.
food;
1 sugar-free cough drop
2 cups water
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