I ate some breakfast. Some cereal and a few apple slices. I refuse to drink the milk, scrape my plate, eat the yogurt or finish the apples. My mantra today is, “I don’t have an eating disorder.” I want to go home, I’m giving up. Fuck recovery and fuck this place. I’ve been here for 6 weeks or 7 and I’m not better. I can’t do PHP because it’s just not feasible. So I quit. And since I’m giving up, I figured, why not relapse now, why wait? I can get a jumpstart on it, so by the time I’m home, I’ll have trained my body/stomach and brain to ignore the hunger again. I’m going to go for 250 calories per day this time. I’m going to get to 100lbs. Why even mess around with 125 or 115. I’m going for size 0. I don’t give a fuck. I want to die and this is the way to do it. There’s nothing that anyone is going to say to convince me otherwise. I don’t have an eating disorder. Fuck group. Fuck treatment. Fuck recovery. Danielle was right. I didn’t want to be here. I pretended I did, but I didn’t, because I don’t want to get better.
I walked around eight miles this morning, about 2 hrs of walking. If I average 1 mile per 15 minutes, that makes 8, right? I don’t need to count steps, just have a timer and I can calculate how many miles I’m walking. I woke up just fucking pissed the fuck off. I can’t get the thought out of my head that my treatment plan is a business decision and nothing else. Fuck them and fuck Anthem. My new goal: ICU. Let’s let Anthem pay for that shit. Fuck our fucking insurance system. I’m going to ask to be discharged AMA. They will resist. I’ll insist. Let’s call it self advocacy. My other plan is to hand them an envelope with, “a revised calendar,” which is actually just their bullshit calendar torn into tiny bits. I don’t approve. I don’t approve of the treatment plan. I refuse any changes to my medications and I refuse a feed tube. I was going to refuse weight this morning, but I had 10 minutes to kill, so Rose could finish up in the shower. But no more weights, no more pee cups, no more labs, no more treatment. I won’t talk in therapy. And for rounds, the only thing I’m going to discuss is my immediate discharge. Fuck hospitals. I will be polite, assertive. I will not raise my voice and I will not show emotion. I’m playing poker with Dr. Parsley. Oh, and I’m revoking all ROIs, including those with my medical team, i.e. Miriam.
So, here we go. I’m not sick. I don’t have an eating disorder. I want to go home. Discharge me. I’m not sick. I don’t have an eating disorder. I want to go home. Discharge me. I’m not sick. I don’t have an eating disorder. I want to go home. Discharge me.
About that letter, I’m on the fence sharing it with them. On one hand, it’s good to be open and honest with your team. On the other hand, I’m not sick, I don’t have an eating disorder and I want to go home. So what’s the point of sharing my thoughts? I’m very angry. I’m angry that they concocted that two week step down schedule. I am angry they tricked me into agreeing to it. I’m angry Alina didn’t have her normal session with me. I’m angry they ambushed me like that. It’s like the care conference bullshit all over again. I really hate how Drs. do that shit. They team up on you, so it’s harder to resist. I don’t trust them and when they all start parroting each other, I become even more suspicious. I’m sure they had a conference on what to do with me, because I’m not just going along with what they say. I would imagine that has something to do with why Alina didn’t see me yesterday at our normal time. It was weird and it pissed me off. I wanted to read her the letter and let her disseminate it to the rest of the group. Now I’m going to be sitting in a room with four people smiling and nodding at me as they tell me what’s best for me. No thanks. I’m not sick. I don’t have an eating disorder. Discharge me.
I panicked yesterday. I didn’t know what else to do, so I stopped eating. I should have taken the clonazepam before lunch like I had been doing. That’s how I was getting through these fucking meals. Also, where the fuck was Courtney. We were supposed to eat that lunch together and she just ghosted me. Weird. It’s like my whole team just ghosted me yesterday. Weird. I don’t trust you fuckers. You’re up to something and I know it’s no good.
I really enjoyed hearing Priscilla and Analise talk this morning. They are so smart and just listening, I learn so much from them. They are adorable. Priscilla gave her dissertation on The Beach Boys, which I thought was really cool. I admire how much she’s into the band members and their stories. She told me the name of a movie about them that I really want to watch. I’ll have to ask the name again. I do feel a little dumb trying to join the conversation. She uses big fucking GRE words that I need to look up. My English is so fucking basic. Nonetheless, hearing them talk is really interesting.
I’m sorry I’m letting my peers down by not eating. I’m sorry guys. I’m a bad example and I should be ashamed of myself. But like Ella K says, “if you’re struggling, your team should see that.” I’ve been eating simple meals, but even those are a challenge. It’s embarrassing to let them see my failure, my peers that is. I don’t care if my team sees or not. It’s not like it’s going to make a difference.
Why wait to relapse? Why not just get the party started now? I’m sitting at the chair at the very end of the hall, right before the small hallway that goes to the cafe. From here, I can see everyone that comes in and leaves the unit. I keep waiting for those double doors to swing open and to see Alina, Courtney, Dr. Parsley or possibly Nancy. I’m not going to sign my treatment plan. One of the things it says is that Dr. Parsley is going to educate me on weight restoration goals. Fuck Dr. Parsley. I don’t care what he has to say about it. I find Drs. to be pretentious, know-it-all assholes and I don’t really care about his opinion. Lexapro isn’t treating my anxiety, I would say that it’s the same or worse than when I came here. That was his big stab at making me better. It’s not better. Meals are still stressful as fuck. Anxiety still snowballs throughout the whole day and turns into a giant boulder by lunch. By dinner and HS snack, I’m just so fucking defeated, i haven’t got any energy left. Here come the patients. Group has ended. My daily intentions sheet just basically said my mantra, “I’m not sick. I don’t have an eating disorder. I want to go home. Discharge me.” Same with the online check in, I denied everything and stated that, “I’m not sick. I don’t have an eating disorder. I want to go home. Discharge me.” I put all zeros/denies for self harm and suicidal ideation. I’m going to deny everything from this point forward. I’m going to eat what I like and refuse the rest of it. I’m not going to go with their plan any more. I’m done with their plan. Their plan sucks. Plus, I think denial is the first step in a solid relapse plan. I can pace early in the morning and get 8 miles of walking in, so I should be burning more calories than I’m taking in and I’m going to refuse weight from this day forward. Fuck them. They can’t make me stand on a scale. I’m not going to debase myself any further. Maybe they can send a note to the business office, “patient says she’s all better, discharge in 72 hours.
Okay, so I went pretty hard on the exercise. My muscles already feel a little jelly and my butt hurts a little bit. I guess that’s the most I’ve moved in months. Honestly, it felt good. I was pissed off and I wanted to process thoughts and I know for a fact that walking in a bilateral movement helps process heavy thoughts. I don’t want to be rude to anyone or lose my cool, so I think moving around a bit is the best option. Plus, I’m done with treatment, because I’m not sick and I don’t have an eating disorder. I want them to discharge me immediately. And I don’t want to say goodbye to anyone, I want to do the 5am vanishing act, like Kelsey did. One day I’m here and the next day, my room is empty and I’m gone, never to be heard or seen again.
How will I get to the ICU? I need to drop down another 30lbs or so, which if I go to 250 calories a day, I should be able to hit in 30-45 days. That will crash out my blood work and send the Drs. into a chaotic panic. Fuck insurance. Fuck my team. Yesterday we talked about how it’s a stigma to invalidate our illness. That’s exactly how I felt about their calendar. Totally invalidated. Fuck. Fuck rounds. Honestly, I want to bolt through those double doors and down the fire escape and out the door. I don’t want to talk to anyone. I feel bad because Betty has been trying to talk to me and I don’t know what to say to her. I think Betty is a good person with a big heart. She asked me if she had done something wrong and that made me feel really guilty. No Betty, you love all of us, I really believe that. Even the girls that are mean to you, you love them and care about everyone’s success. I give you a ton of credit for that. And I like that you get up in the morning and put on something nice, do your makeup and your hair. It makes you feel good, you said. I understand that, it makes me feel good, too. I don’t do a lot of makeup here, because I feel like I mess it up and all the girls judge me for bad makeup. You want to help me, but that’s a little embarrassing in front of the other girls. But no, you haven’t done anything wrong, you’re a delightful woman.
No, this is self sabotage, which we’ve talked about before. Well this is the live action version of it. Just checked in with the medical NP. “How are you doing, physically?” Fucking peachy bitch. I’m not sick, I don’t have an eating disorder. Discharge me, I want to go home. I don’t want treatment and I don’t need recovery. I’m recovered. VIOLA! Like magic, ALL BETTER! I want to go home and resume my life. I want to eat when and if I want to eat. I want to set my own weight goals. I want to move around as much as I want. I want to shit without having to have someone else look at it. I want to shower in my shower. I want my dog. I want my cats. I want to hold Juniper as much and as often as I can. I’m not sick. I don’t have an eating disorder. Discharge me. I want to go home. I want to sit outside and smoke weed. I want my dog to pounce on me and play too much. I want my cat to sleep on my face. I want to take my house back over. It’s my house. I want my own money. I want to continue the care of Juniper. I want to live alone. I want to finish my divorce. I want to forget about Danielle. I want to be tiny and fragile. I want my BF to fuck me endlessly and then hold me in his big, strong arms and say sweet things to me. I want him to undress me. I want to dress sexy for him. I want him to protect me and be my friend. But I want to do it my own way. I don’t want to eat 6 times a day. I don’t want to eat 2 times a day. I want to drink a shake or 2 and call it a fucking day. I don’t want someone to watch what I eat. I want my autonomy. I don’t want to do 2 months of PHP. I don’t want to do any PHP. I don’t want to see my peers from here. Except Abigail. I need to text her and find out how she’s doing. I want to see my roses bloom. I want to watch Juniper’s garden grow. I want to make the grass green. I want to see the wildflowers. I want to vape. I really want to smoke some weed and watch TV on my giant ass TV and my comfy couch. I want to care for Juniper. I’m her Mom and her Dad. I want her to have me there, so she feels safe and content. I want to watch Queen videos with her and listen to Radiohead with her. I want to dance with her. I want to watch Sesame Street with her and do all the hand motions and kids at home parts. I’ll say the words for her. I know she’s thinking about them. I want to take her to school and to therapies. I want to make sure she gets back into hippotherapy. I want to see her get her bike for her birthday. I want to watch her ride it around her garden. I’m so proud of her and all the hard work she does. I love Juniper more than anyone or anything else in this world. I want to drink too many energy drinks and too much coffee. I want to pace around the house and be obsessed with keeping it clean. I want to buy Juniper’s clothes and dress her how she wants to dress. I want to brush her hair and her teeth. I want to bathe her. I want Rainbow around to protect me and keep anyone from fucking with me.
Put that on hold, here they come. The fucking assholes just walked through the door. Dr. Parsley in tow. I guess it’s a real Dr. day instead of the NP. At least he has decision making power. Release me doc, I don’t want to do treatment any longer. False alarm, they grabbed someone else first. I’m basically hiding at the end of the hall. I don’t know if they saw me here or not. I’m ready for the tongue lashing. Truth be told, I feel awful today. It’s a combination of no sleep, being anxious and angry and over exercising this morning. But I’ll get used to it. I just feel icky now. Also, all the stupid fucking meds that they have me on right now make me queasy. Especially the stupid fucking vitamins. I don’t need a bunch of vitamins. Fuck vitamins. I don’t want my blood work to look good. I don’t want my body functioning properly. I don’t give a fuck. If being healthy means being miserable, what’s the fucking point.; I’m not sick, I don’t have an eating disorder, I want to discharge and go home. Uh Oh, here comes Alina. Ohh, she took a left into the exam room. Probably another false alarm. Now she’s heading back down the hall. She turned back to see if it was me sitting down here. Yup, bitch, I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing. I’m journaling.
I want to take a moment to express some gratitude for Kiki and I forget that BHT’s name, but the one whose brother is a sheriff. She’s really nice and she was concerned this morning and tried to get me to talk. She asked me what I was feeling and I told her, “fucking piss.” But then she asked what was going on and I said I didn’t want to talk about it. I don’t. I’m not sick. I don’t have an eating disorder. I want to go home. Fuck treatment. Fuck recovery. Kiki tried to get me talking, too. She asked how I was doing and I shrugged. She responded with, “You’re beautiful, don’t forget that.” and a heart shape with her hands. She’s so sweet. These girls are so nice and they really do care. Like, really, honestly do care about all of us. It’s weird because they are all younger than me and their primary job is to enforce the rules of this place. But I love them and I want to do what they ask, because they are so kind. I don’t mind them being in charge of me, because it’s rarely an abuse of power or authority, minus Monté. Her thing with hats and hoodies is silly, but it’s also not worth fighting over. I won’t do that again. I’ll just take off the hoodie, if it comes up. I took off my hat for her last time. She thinks she’s just doing her job. I don’t know why she’s the only one that enforces those rules, but they are in fact rules, so who am I to disregard them. I don’t want to make their jobs hard. I don’t want to be a bitch. DO NOT BE A BITCH. Like rule #1. And giving them a hard time is being a bitch. I think that’s why the other girls got so irritated with me. I’m not a bitch and don’t want to act like one. I want to be likeable. I guess I am because Shawnee (sp?) let me go to my room yesterday to rest. And Kiki is checking up on me. And the sheriff’s sister tried to talk to me multiple times. I hope I wasn’t rude about it. I just didn’t know what to say. Like, how do I talk to her about all the bullshit I’m dealing with. I have 60-something pages of bullshit and thoughts. How do I put that into a 2 minute conversation in the hallway? And at 4:30 am? My mouth doesn’t work yet at 4:30 AM. My body barely does. Albeit, I had no lack of energy to walk this morning. I want the girls to like and respect me. So don’t be a bitch, ok?
I hate groups. I don’t want to attend today at all. No thanks. I’ll just write instead. How am I feeling? Betrayed. Why? Because I don’t think my discharge plan was about my health, I think it was about my insurance. I think they pushed way too hard, too fast. I think I was bound to crash out after getting their shitty calendar. I think I should have ripped it up right then and there. I think any meal plan increase will mean I restrict myself more. I think I am hard headed and I find a way. Today, I’m just trying to find a way to be done with this bullshit. It’s 9:57, so we have snack in a few minutes. I never know when they are going to actually call snack though. Could be 3 minutes, could be 20. You just never know. I think I’ve been typing so much my fingers are sore. I guess that’s better than walking so much my legs hurt. I don’t want to be emotional or vulnerable today. I don’t want to be part of the process. I don’t want recovery. I don’t need it. I’m not sick. I don’t have an eating disorder. I want to be discharged and go home. Because I’m not sick and I don’t have an eating disorder. AM snack almost always means a shake. I refuse to drink it. I don’t know what they are putting in it. I don’t trust Courtney. What if she made it a C+ without telling me. I don’t know what they are and aren’t allowed to do. She seemed to back down when I said I don’t approve. But who fucking knows. They can probably claim medical necessity and do what they want. That’s what really kicked off the restriction. I don’t know what’s in my food and I sure as fuck don’t trust Courtney or anyone else for that matter. Trust is a major issue for us, remember?
Rose and Rachel still pace the most of anyone around here. I don’t like to pace around them because it’s a compulsion for them and I don’t want to trigger them since they are trying to reduce their pacing. But also, they are the ones that got me into pacing. I guess I didn’t realize how many steps you can fit into a 2 hour time frame. I’m going to walk every morning from 4:30 to 6:30am going forward. Less people to bitch at you. I don’t want to get caught by Courtney or Alina, they’ll chastise me about it. Fuck them. I didn’t ask for their opinion on the subject. I’m tired of waking up at 4am and having to just lie in bed and pretend that I’m still sleeping. It’s boring and it makes my thoughts go beserko. It drives my anxiety up to a 10/10. It causes SI and SH. Fuck lying around, feeling bad. At least give me an outlet for that energy. I want to dance and sing to Katy Perry. I want to move. I want to burn calories. I want to work on my figure. I’m not body neutral. I care about how I look and that’s not going to change. I don’t want to be bigger. I’m broken and can’t be fixed. And besides, I’m not sick, I don’t have an eating disorder, I want to go home. Discharge me. After snack I guess, the shit is going down.
It’s cold. This stupid fucking building is fucking cold. Especially this hallway. It’s always cold here, every fucking room, but this hallway is the worst. It’s 10:45am. How I feel really pissed off and anxious. Anxiety is 10/10. I can’t do groups today. I can’t be in that confined space with that many people. Especially because Mannon took my seat and I feel like Ella K. doesn’t really like having me sit next to her. It’s so awkward. But, Mannon wants to sit next to Katy because they are roommates and I get that. I don’t want to be a bitch. So, it’s whatever. I should go pee.
I want to melt away. Not die, not “Not wake up.” Just melt away like a snowman. It existed and was, but now it’s no more. That’s what I want my story to be. I came around on a spring early morning, survived for 45 years and then just melted and became different molecules. I want my molecules to become something else. Not dirt though. I want to become air and water maybe. Or wind or clouds in the sky. I want to exist, just not as a human. I want to be something that requires less work and less thought. Clouds don’t get sick. Clouds don’t worry about mental health. They form and float around for a while and then they turn to rain or snow, or they simply evaporate away. Maybe I’d rain and turn into a puddle for Polly to stomp in or a snowflake that turns into a snowball that Rose can throw. But regardless, I’d just melt away or evaporate or maybe I’d land in a beautiful lake in the mountains and settle at the bottom and just sit and be. No thinking required. No body to speak of and no one to disturb or hurt me. I wouldn’t have to worry about trust, or being accepted or being loved. I’d just be. Why can’t I just be? Why can’t humans just be and exist? We’re too complicated. Our brains have become too advanced and now we can’t go back to simpler times. We didn’t always act like this. A cave woman had really two roles. It was to make a child and then protect that child from harm. Maybe she learned some basic skills, but language was so basic, I doubt she had many thoughts. I doubt she had a lot of anxiety. How can you have anxiety if you don’t have thoughts? Isn’t that what anxiety is, just an overload of too many thoughts, too fast? That’s how it feels to me. I’m tired of having to think all the time. I’m tired of worrying about human worries. It’s all just too fucking much. Maybe that guy that invented the lobotomy really changed the world and we’re just too stupid to still appreciate it. They don’t do lobotomies any more, do they? Sign me up! I want to have my brain scrambled so that I only care about the most basic of functions. I could eat without feeling fear, go out without feeling fear, stop worrying about what I looked like or if girls would accept me. They’d probably fucking hate me, but I wouldn’t care. I don’t think that lobotomized people care about style or weight. I doubt they have much preference on food at all. It’s all just food to them, right? Do they feel or recognize love? What about loss? Do they feel grief at all? I don’t want to feel grief any more. And I definitely don’t want to feel pain. Pain is the bain of our human existence. Whoever said without pain there is no pleasure didn’t know what the fuck they were talking about. I’ve had love without pain, at least for a while. I’ve experienced someone caring so much about me they would jump in front of a speeding bus to save me. I’ve seen it first hand, it does exist. It just doesn’t last. But that shouldn’t mean that it can’t. Some love lasts a lifetime and has very little pain associated with it. Why can’t I have that kind of love?
Maybe that’s the kind of love Brandon wants to give me. He says he won’t hurt me. He says. Well, Danielle said she’d never stop trying and look where that ended up. She gave up on us the moment she had a chance to go be crust punk nashvillian hipster.
Rounds are a crock of shit. My team is fucking shit. I don’t like them. I actively dislike them, actually. I don’t trust them and I don’t want their advice and I told them as much. Fuck their plan. I don’t want to be part of their bullshit, backhanded undermining dumbass shit any more. No, I won’t sign a treatment plan. No. Absolutely not. Talk to my mother. Hell fucking no. Are you out of your fucking minds. And revoke all ROIs with any other Dr I may have. Fuck you. Talk to my mother. Fuck you. Are you fucking nuts. No. Absolutely fucking no, no, no. Why would you think I’d let you do that? No, the idea is to send Mom packing back to TN and for me to take my fucking life back. Fuck groups, fuck my team, and fuck your stupid fucking treatment plan. Talk to a clinical manager, whatever. I don’t care. Sure. Let’s have some kind of conversation about how trust is a major fucking factor. And you have blown away all trust with your bullshit calendar. I don’t want to talk about weight goals. I don’t want to talk about medications. I care what the normal policy is. And I am not doing outpatient care. I don’t have time and I just don’t fucking care, because I’m not sick. I do not have an eating disorder and I want to go home. Surprised? It’s fun, it’s it. Being ambushed with some stupid fucking meaningless idea. Fuck you. Fuck you very much. I don’t like you. I don’t trust you and we’re not on the same team. I could tell it hurt Alina’s feelings, but fuck her. She couldn’t even be bothered to come see me yesterday. Why in the actual fuck would I like or trust you? I trust a cashier from Burger King more than I trust you. Fuck you. You pulled me out of my room when I was in distress and made me walk in front of the entire unit. Why the fuck would I trust you? You don’t trust me. You don’t seem to think I’m capable of gauging my feelings enough to know when I need to have space. You don’t trust me enough to let me have 20 minutes before dinner and after group to decompress from being around so many people and showing vulnerability. I fucking hate you. Also, you were kind of a bitch today when you came to get me. So extra super deluxe ultra fuck you and while you’re at, go fuck yourself. Lots of fucking take place here, but not with me. You’re done fucking me, you fucking assholes. I just don’t like you people. I find you to be fake and shallow and the fact that you thought doing a 2 week step down plan was a good fucking idea shows that you know nothing about me or my goals. It shows that you don’t know what drives me and that you have no idea how to treat me. Fuck you. Really. Fuck you.
I’m going to my room and I don’t intend on coming out for the rest of the day or night, until after dinner. Then I will go get ready for bed and go to sleep. I’m so mad I could shit. It’s like the more that I fuckiung think about it, the more annoyed I get. Here’s the fucking plan, Mr. Care m
Clinical director just stopped by to tell me that she can’t really do anything. She’s going to talk to the other psychiatrists and see what their recommendations may be. These fucking white coats stick together. The thin white line. It’s fucking bullshit. The other option was ED Care. No. Absolutely not. Start over at a different fucking place. Fuck you. No. I’m not doing that. If the step down recommendation is 2 weeks, then fuck you. If the target weight goal is the same fuck you. My plan is to relapse as hard and as fast as I can. But this time, i’ll do it better. I’ll use all the neat little tricks that I’ve learned while I was here. Binging on water, laxatives, other drugs, over exercise like a fucking champion. My goal is to make my heart stop in 45-60 days. Fuck you. Step down is not a good option, I’m not doing it. I won’t go to PHP. I will not travel from home every day to here. I don’t have a vehicle and out of principle, I’m not paying uber/lyft $60/day for 4 months or whatever the fuck. Fuck this place. Fuck the Drs. here and fuck this stupid fucking clinical director that doesn’t sound like she can do much of anything. Fuck them all. I hate this fucking place and I hate all of the people here. Well, all of the fancy people here. They all fucking suck. Fuck food. Fuck eating. Fuck living. Fuck you. And fuck your stupid fucking plan. Fuck you all. I literally hate every single mother fucker behind those closed doors. You shady fucking fucks.
I’m so fucking pissed and I’m panicked and fucking pissed and fucking pissed. Did I mention that I am fucking pissed the fuck off. And I really need to piss, but I’m afraid to come out of my room, because I’m afraid they are going to lock me out. I’m terrified. I am fucking terrified. If you can’t do something better than what was being offered, just send me home. I’ve already started my relapse. I want to quit. I just want to quit. I want to stop wasting everyone’s time and I want to quit. I never should have come here to begin with and I’ve stayed way too long. It’s just been telling myself one lie after another to convince me to stay. I fucking hate this place and I hate everything about it. It’s all fucking greedy ass fucking money grubby pieces of shit. All the fake shit that they put on is just more proof that it’s bullshit.
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