...is what I did. With my therapist today. Second appointment.
I told her. Everything.
She didn't charge me any extra to let me stay there an hour after our appointment ended. She heard about the abuse. About the ED. About the imaginary friends when I was little. The obsessive movements I have, the anger issues, the disregard for safety, the constant fear. I told her my religion. I told her my take on mental disorders. I told her about Ana, and how she talks inside of my head. I told her about my fear of waffles, and my unending hateful relationship with nutritional information. I told her what i hear when I eat. I told her how hard it is for me to start eating.
How impossible it is to stop.
I go back on Thursday.
The sessions are only $10 a piece, without insurance, because of my income.
It's in a bad part of town. But this is the place I drove to after my nervous breakdown, and I'm lucky I did. The waiting list is generally 3 months before you can even get put on the list. Apparently, I was such a dire case, that my therapist is personally pulling extra hours to make sure I get the treatment necessary.
She told me was honestly going to commit me on Friday, but she was nervous about how it would affect me, and knew the process right now would be too long, and it would make me worse than I was. She admitted she was afraid I wouldn't come back, or that I would have really hurt myself over the weekend, and that she had doubts the whole time about whether she had made the right decisions to not hospitalize me right there. I thanked her. Promised I'd be back.
I told her about thinspo. What ProAna is. Told her that without my girls, I wouldn't have made it this far--that it sounds terrible, but people outside don't tend to understand that it's an unending flow of support, nonjudgmental, welcoming--the balance to the cruel self loathing and the evil voice that flits through us, telling us how terrible we are. I told her how people will always give you the information you want, and the exchange is so open and free, that it lets you actually make informed decisions and go about your self destruction in the least destructive way possible. And that it's okay to say "I want to get better", because they encourage and support even that. That I'd never met a person actually wanting other people to become like this. That it is just...the only place I feel completely accepted.
She typically deals with drug addictions.
I'm her second case of an eating disorder in her whole career, and she's been doing this for a while. She made it seem like her other was an ex addict, or else an addict. I told her I don't mind. She's my first eating disorder therapist, so we can be newbies at this together.
It's just nice to have someone I can tell everything to.
She doesn't give terrible feedback. She's honest. She smiles a lot. She's warm.
She seems like she's really concerned.
I'm not going to look too deep into the motives.
I just know I left today feeling...not manically happy, like i get, where my impulses are shattered. But not the despondent feeling I've had for the past month. I left feeling lighter. Relieved. I left feeling like I had hope again.
No, I may not be ready to get better and get over my eating disorder. Maybe that will come in time.
Maybe I'll learn how to handle it better.
But I'm ready to stop hearing these terrible things in my head. I'm ready to stop dying.
Speaking of death.
I saw it today.
There was an accident. I saw them as they were pulling the man from his Sears van, his work shirt ripped open, his chest heaving up and down with that liquid movement that comes only when the ribs have been cracked and broken from vigorous CPR, rising and falling with each breath forced in his mouth by the manual ventilation bag. I saw it right after it happened, with only EMS and Fire there, and two cops. They were dragging the bodies out from a wreck that didn't appear too terrible at first glance, but the man was clearly not there. There was nothing in his body.
I hope he made it.
But when I went by on my way home, it was clear he hadn't. Or else, someone else had died there. But perhaps, hopefully, I'm wrong, and this was just that strange of an accident...but they had the whole intersection blocked off by police, with crime scene and traffic investigation units there. They had the white sheets out. The evidence van. Nearly two and a half hours later. And still, they were picking up.
It should have bothered me. And it did. I felt bad for him.
Death is lonely. Quick. Sudden. Terrifying. You could be holding the hand of your one true love, and still be completely and utterly by yourself. They can't follow you into that gaping vacuum of space--that endless, infinite beyond--and it would be lonely. How frightening to face it by yourself, and maybe that's what all of life is there to prepare us for--that moment when we face the greatest obstacle of them all and step out of our selves, and into the unknown world that awaits.
But death is over in an instant. All it takes is that last spark of the brain, and while the process is quick, the ending is often times relegated to mere seconds of fading electrical activity and then nothing. The deceased don't have to stare at their bodies after, nor deal with the sudden loss that comes when you realize you can never speak to a person again. You can never hear their voice say "I love you" or their arms hug you, or never have that conversation you thought you'd always have time to. The dead do not hold regrets over never forgiving, or forgetting to give a hug on the way out. They don't have to face the photographs and the clearing of personal affairs, and the horrible process of burying the body, and living, wondering what would have been different if things had just changed the tiniest bit.
It's the living that face that task.
I feel not bad for the dead, but those they leave on this world. Those who have to come to grips with all that's gone and all that will never be.
Those are the ones who suffer the most.
This post...is shockingly morbid.
Sorry you guys.
I had some interesting things to write, but I forgot them all now.
Good luck, stay strong. I had a binge last night, but I'm starving it off today. Only got up to 123.8, which is VERY GOOD for a binge night. So hopefully, I can knock it back down to 123 or something. Only need to be 122 to meet my goal for this month.
Have fun, dollies.
Recover. Eat on!
If that's your choice and your goal.
Either way, I love you all, and support you no matter your goals. Just like you all have supported me.
♥ ♥ ♥ PrettyWreck ♥ ♥ ♥