I’m tired of people dying. I’m tired of food. I’m fucking tired of eating and UNSURPRISINGLY eating is all I want to fucking do. Numb out the pain. Jump into the only form of suffering I’m actually comfortable with. Hello, old friend. Nice to be reacquainted with you.
We’re really enjoying those daytime moments of “balance,” aren’t we? The ones full of mindfulness and drinking water and yoga and holistic therapy. Only to be ravaged by a insatiable drive to eat, eat, eat once the nighttime demons kick in.
I hate you.
I need to go back to therapy. Or a support group. Something. I’ve tried everything. But what good is any of it if I’m not actually moving forward? Fuck. I want to be recovered. I don’t want to do the work, but, on the other hand, I know the only way to get over something is to push through it.
I’m such a good therapist. I love my clients. I love what I do. They are incapable of disappointing me. I thought I would become better at extending love to myself by now. I’ve been practicing, I’ve been trying my best. What if it’s not enough?
Even this blog is becoming black-and-white as I oscillate between “GO RECOVERY! HAPPY-HAPPY-JOY-JOY” posts to the dreary and somber helpless tales such as this one. Welcome to the complexity of an eating disorder, a special place in hell where no matter how much I believe I have a coherent understanding of recovery, a new page turns a new wave tries to knock me down. The slips hurt. More than ever. Each one plunges me deeper and deeper.
I can’t stop eating. I’m filling voids that cannot be filled with food. I’m numbing emotions that cannot be cured with food. I’m healing problems that cannot be healed with food. The pattern ensues. I blame my willpower, although that is not the problem. I go back and forth between victimizing myself and beating myself. I hate who I am when I am like this. And yet, I keep slipping.
But, to conclude,
My second biggest fear is fear and loss.
The first, i’m realizing, is knowing that I have no control over said fear and loss…
