I’m 29. My first entry here was on July 18, 2010.
This blog is almost 10 years old. I’m 2lbs shy of the weight I started at, all that time ago.Â
Things are different now, but also very much the same. I am still at war with my skin. I am still separate from my body - brain versus flesh. I have never been “that bad”, never sought proper treatment, never legitimately asked for help and received the kind of help I actually need. There was a time, I think – couple years ago – that I actually considered it. Started therapy, wanted to recover, restored my weight on my own.
But my therapist was not an ED specialist and very quickly, I was able to deflect and lie. I didn’t want to - why spend money to lie to someone? But I feel like a joke. Who spends a decade with an eating disorder and doesn’t get “bad enough” to warrant any degree of concern? Who spends a fucking decade doing this without losing so much as 15lbs?
When I started all I cared about was “winning my ex back”. Now, there is no reason other than … well, reasons, I guess. Does my life have any meaning now? I’m afraid to keep going because I know the looming reality of having to bear a child inches closer to me, but I’m too scared. I don’t know if I’d be fit to be a mother. Everyone says - “you’d be able to prioritize the child over yourself, you’d naturally want to give that baby the best you could”
But they’re wrong, i think. I am more selfish than anyone could possibly imagine. Greedy, self serving, delusional, bad. I’m a liar and all I care about is numbers, size, weight, food.Â
I’ve never wanted anything as badly as I want to see double digits. So why haven’t I made it there?Â
Maybe because i know getting there would mean treatment and I’m too afraid to think of a life without this. But couldn’t I just do treatment and then go back to it when I needed to? Well, in that case, what’s the fucking point? Why try if my end goal would be to negate the process anyway?
Coffee, cereal, blueberries, half bagel and light cream cheese, grapes, cucumbers, toast with jam, sushi. Rules about time, about schedule, about when to weigh when not to weigh, has to be a certain way to get it right, specific times, specific position of scale on the floor. I just want to see that bump where collarbone connects to shoulder, more than anything I want to see that bump again. I want to feel that space where something used to be.Â
Excuses - metabolism is fucked (it isn’t). Lies - i’m not eating that much (I am - I’m not counting). The facts are the facts and I’ve maintained above where I want to be for six weeks. I’m only 9 pounds away from safety, from pride.Â
I have nothing left to work toward. My degree is useless and I don’t see a future in psychology anymore. I have no in, and no drive to keep on going. I really wasn’t cut out for it in the end, anyway. Maybe she was right.Â
Minutes tick by. Is oatmeal safe? 160kcal is under limit so it should be fine. 11am, 160kcal on top of a 43kcal coffee, followed by a safe lunch of half bagel and light cream cheese and cucumber, 161kcal. If I sliced the first grape tomato in four rather than in two, I could cut three kcal out and be under 160 - sounds better, but who cares?
10,000 steps. If I could just see that proper, round number at the end of each day I’d know I was making progress - but i don’t leave the house. What do I do instead? Lay on the couch and stare at the fucking ceiling? If it matters so much why the fuck aren’t I doing more?
But she says - you know how. You’ve done it before. Do it again. Stop making excuses, stop lying to yourself. It’s simple: in versus out. Take the walk. Smile. Eat just enough to keep them off your back.
I’m cutting ties with someone who insists that I *~*~fully recover~*~* because i can’t take the bullshit anymore. There is no full recovery for me. I’ll spend the rest of my life here because my life is here. Ten years of my life, here. My whole adult experience, wrapped up in this mirror world. There is no way out, and I don’t even want a way out. The only person getting in my way is myself.Â
