If something that didn't bother you at the time comes back to haunt you today, remember to be gentle with yourself about it, even though it didn't happen today.
I'm thinking, for no apparent reason, of something that I think I only told one person about at the time, and even though it was quite a long time ago, find it occasionally difficult to think about let alone talk about. If we exclude my first year of life, I'm pretty sure this is the closest I've ever been to actually dying, and it wasn't even *directly* mental health related. It was during my most severe ED relapse, after I reached (and rapidly rebounded from) my lowest adult weight. It was maybe ten or eleven at night, and I was doing that terrible habit I'm currently trying to break, of reading stuff on my phone in bed. Felt a bit out of it; pulled up my trusty clock app and took my heart rate.
Guidelines in Australia have criteria for advised hospital admission in known ED cases. The exact number doesn't matter, but I was indeed experiencing severe bradycardia that warranted a medical admission. I kept tracking it. I know for sure that it stayed below that magic 'your heart could actually literally stop anytime' number for at least half an hour without rising above it. During that time, it got worse. My hands went almost entirely numb and my vision was unsteady; you know when you're dizzy and every heartbeat renews your vision just enough to see things slightly clearly, but it's fading before the next beat rather, because your heart simply isn't up to the task right now? That. Hypoxia without the reserves to compensate for it.
I wasn't thinking clearly. I stayed sort of curled up and wondered if I was going to die when I went to sleep (because heart rate drops during sleep), but I also didn't care, because I was so thoroughly out of it. Eventually I thought about the whole sense of impending doom thing that's said to happen in cases where people are about to experience something near death, decided that wasn't happening, figured I'd be fine and went to sleep. Clearly I didn't die, but I don't think my suspicions of potential death were unwarranted. The next day I told a dear friend what had happened, wrote a scene putting that experience onto one of my characters, and figured I was fine, since I'd woken up and all. I told nobody in my direct, real-life circle, including medical professionals.
I have experienced that degree of bradycardia both before and since, including once in a doctor's office. (It was, bizarrely, brushed off as no problem.) I have never before or since experienced those other symptoms.
Tonight, I am safe. I am drinking hot chocolate, listening to one of my favourite albums (The Seekers' Seen In Green) and thinking about starting a new project tomorrow once I have time to jump down a research rabbithole. Tonight, apparently, my brain wants to rehash that one time I'm pretty sure I nearly died and didn't even care.
I would not go back to that time for anything, now. You really don't need the concept of an after-death hell at all when you have an eating disorder or any other kind of addiction. These things are hell on earth, and sometimes you can be trapped in that hell for a long time, because freedom is more terrifying than any cage. But tonight I am safe, and once I finish my hot drink, I will go and read a bit of a good book instead of doomscrolling.
Be gentle with yourself. You are the only human who really knows what is hurting you. Your problems are not unique, but they do matter. If you're someone for whom helping others is important, remember that if you destroy yourself, you cannot as effectively be of assistance. You need to be healthy enough in every way to operate at full capacity; but it's not easy. The road is long and worth the walking.
Go with God, and reach out to people, tell them what you're going through and allow yourself to be carried when you need it.
