It’s been a productive morning thus far. I woke up from a nightmare at 2:30 am. My favorite grandfather was sitting across from me at a table telling how ashamed he was of me. I guess that’s something I’ve always really feared, even when I claimed that I wasn’t scared of anything. It’s a hell of a way to wake up, my first reaction was to cry, but that’s exactly what he would have been ashamed of when he was alive. I cried the day we found out he had cancer and he laughed and gave me a hug. But I could tell he was embarrassed, his 15 year old grandson was crying like a woman. Imagine if I made him call me Clara, his granddaughter. He would have disowned me. Much the way I think my father would react and why I never plan on having that conversation with him. Since I couldn’t cry (about the dream), I just got really pissed off and decided to walk it off. Anger is a hell of a motivation to do something that you’re explicitly told you’re not supposed to be doing. I walked a little over 4 miles and was able to move quickly enough to get my heart rate elevated. In other words, I’m building muscle and burning fat pretty rapidly. I would imagine if I skip a few more meals and keep up the exercise I’ll start dropping weight pretty quickly. I can’t imagine I’m consuming that many calories anyways. Definitely under 2500 calories, with the skipped meals. It’s not like they tell us this shit, so it’s all a guess. But I’m pretty good at estimating this kind of stuff.
What fueled my anger? It’s shit “my team” keep saying. Stuff like, “you’ll take cooking classes and learn how to cook.” Bitch, I already know how to cook. I’m good at it. I just never want to do it again. That was something Danielle and I did together and now it’s ruined. My kid has a G-Tube, so it’s not like I’m cooking for anyone but myself anyways. Or they say things like, “we’ll order in something you really like.” Dumbass, I lived on Postmates for 6 years. I don’t like anything. Nothing is appealing. It all sounds gross. I don’t want to order in, ever again. It’s gross. No. Just fucking no. If this is PHP, I’m going to walk the fuck out. Oh, and that meal I’m supposed to cook for myself… ain’t happening. No snacks, no meals for myself. Fact. You can get my weight to 500lbs, I’m still not going to do it. Eating was something I did with Danielle and now she’s gone. You want to talk to my mother? FUCK YOU. NO. My mother is not part of my medical decisions. I’ve been on my own since I was 9 for the most part. She doesn’t get to have a say now. I love her, but NO. The only person that I would possibly listen to would be Danielle,, but she doesn’t want me in her life any more. So… I guess we’re just fucked, huh? It’s not like Brandon has that kind of sway over me. He can give me opinions and I’ll nod and stuff, but he’s not going to convince me to eat more or to do anything for that matter.
Now don’t get me wrong, I’m still going to try today. But a few things are certain. If there are changes to my meal plan, I am walking out of the cafe. If there are changes to PM snack, I’m skipping dinner. If you try to serve me a parfait, I’ll walk out of the cafe. I just can’t trust that it hasn’t been tampered with and I already don’t know what ingredients are in it. We were supposed to be rebuilding trust, so the unannounced changes yesterday really fucked with me. It just felt like such a shady move. I agreed to 135 lbs. And even though I do kind of like Dr. Parsley, he kept trying to push higher and I am not going to agree to that. I need to know that we are working on the same goal before I agree to any changes. Frankly, if you keep trying to make me go up on weight restoration goals, I’m going to go lower. Keep testing me. You won’t win this fucking game with me.
7:02 AM and I’m already showered, dressed, teeth brushed and waiting for meds. The med line is kind of short this morning, which is really weird. Did everyone just stop caring about meds? It’s cool, I’m supposed to take Buspar every day at the same time. Apparently, it’s really important with this med. Dr. Parsley neglected to tell me that, but I conducted my own research. I could really find much other than, it takes 2-4 weeks to start working too, so we’re not going to really know if the lexapro or buspar are effective. Probably should have waited on starting a new med, but I kind of bullied him into it. To be fair, I did warn him on day ONE, I can say whatever needs to be said to get what I want. I mean, I am winning. I guess. I don’t know, maybe I’m losing, because I’m not doing the things they want me to do. I’m doing things my way. So that’s kind of losing, I guess. I don’t know. Maybe there is no winning. I’m broken, remember? I don’t feel any less broken today than I did yesterday.
I had an interesting and somewhat extended conversation with Nurse Brandon last night. He’s kind of cute and I think he likes me, but I’m usually wrong about these sorts of things. Anyways, he was grilling me on last night’s dinner and snack. “Do I want to go to PHP?” Yes!. On June 1st, I am committed to going to PHP with zero resistance or further negotiation. “Why did you leave PM snack?” Because my meal plan was changed without my knowledge or consent. And frankly, something was in that shake that tasted really bitter. Whether or not it was put there on purpose, I can’t say. But it was gross and the taste stayed in my mouth for at least 20 minutes after I got up and left. “Why didn’t you go to dinner?” Because I was pissed about the meal plan change. How can I trust any part of the meal plan if you’re making changes without informing me first. I did not agree to the C+. I’m not agreeing to C+. I’m not agreeing to trying to get my weight to trend up. I don’t feel comfortable with it. So, you make all the changes you feel like making and I’m going to skip all the meals that I don’t want to eat. Furthermore, I’m going to exercise in the early morning hours, before there’s really anyone here to mess with me about it. Night BHTs don’t give a shit. And I’m going to do so in a way that doesn’t draw attention. If I must, I’ll pace in my room and just do wind sprints back and forth for an hour to get my heart rate up. I don’t trust you.
The Enforcer, Kristen, is here today. That means no sneak off into my room, she’ll have that shit locked before breakfast. I might skip lunch though, because she’ll come by and tell me lunch is ready and lock the door. This is horrible. My ED thoughts are so strong this morning. I guess. I should turn this around. What would the opposite action be? But the eating disorder says, “Fuck opposite action”, “remember your goals”, “they aren’t the same as ‘your teams’ goals”. And all these things are true, aren’t they? Isn’t the ED correct? I’m so confused. I thought I knew what I wanted. I felt like I was seeing the light and then the rug got pulled out from under me.
“What are your safety numbers today?” FUCK, I don’t know. I usually just make some shit up. I guess that’s what you’re supposed to do. I said, “Four and Four” as though those have any real meaning. I’m not actually thinking about killing myself the fast way. I’m back on the starve myself to death train. Do you think that’s why my dreams were so weird? Because I’m back in suicide zone. It’s a shitty place to be. Or maybe it was really my grandfather speaking to me. I think he would be ashamed and I would be banished from the family. That’s part of the reason for me waiting so long to “come out”. I’ve literally been waiting for anyone that I thought would care to die. My dad is the last person. It’s not that I want him to die. I love my Dad. But I don’t want to disappoint him. And he would feel ashamed. I’m kind of done with shame. Fuck shame.
30 minutes fly right by when you are waiting for meds. Well, technically I’m no longer waiting. I took my cocktail of pills and two puffs of nasal spray. I do like sitting by the med window though. It’s less lonely than by the community room. No one really sits down there in the morning any more. And I don’t want to go back to my room. I’ve already made my bed and gathered my daytime wants and needs. This is the most active area for the next 15 minutes.
Anelise is the most darling little thing. I think she’s 18 or 19 years old and really sweet. This is her 5th visit to ERC, so clearly she’s been doing this since she was a little. She says, “let me know if you need anything”. And I’m pretty sure she was talking to me. I said, “same” I really wish there was more we could do to help each other. If I could take their pain and their trauma and then just end it all myself, I would. But that’s not the way the world works. We all have to “sit in our pain”, which means, suffer. But we’re supposed to let those thoughts come and then go. That’s where we get stuck. We have the pain, we feel it. Then we feel it again and again and again.. Until we break.
[Note to Self: Scan in pages from written journal while computer was charging]
Ohhh and the nightmares persist. I sleep and they hound me and I wake and they hound me. I just left snack early to take clonazepam. I sat down in the cafe and from the door everything looked like it was back to normal. I thought. One strawberry shake, no additional supplements. Whatever. “I’ll drink it”, I thought. But when I get over to the table, a closer examination makes me realize that it’s not a shake at all. It’s some sort of strawberry smoothie. Not that I have anything against smoothies, in most cases they are fine. I’ll go to Smoothie King or whatever generic smoothie shop there is and watch them make my made-to-order smoothie, usually a couple of fruits, some protein powder, maybe something for energy. Whatever. But this is a hospital setting and I have no idea what’s in this thing. They already tried to scam me once during snack yesterday. I made it known to Brandon last night the reason I didn’t want to eat dinner or finish snack wasn’t about PHP. It’s not. June 1 is a perfect date to discharge. I’m happy with that. But I don’t like changes being made to my meal plan without my knowledge or consent. I freaked out. I left. I feel bad and guilty. It’s not a good look, I’m supposed to be having recovery oriented thoughts today. That was one of my smart goals. But I can’t do that if they keep changing my meal plan. I didn’t agree to a smoothie instead of a shake. I don’t even trust the shake, to be honest. But the smoothie is so thick and you could literally put anything in there and I would never know. Was that the plan? Ramp up snacks and try to trick me into eating them. That doesn’t seem like a very “team” like thing to do. It just makes me trust them even less. And it’s a weekend, so there’s no getting a hold of Courtney. We can’t even see what the meal plan looks like. All the BHTs have is what’s circled on a sheet, which is taken from what we planned for the week. I was already so apprehensive about meals. This is just one more strike against, “my team.” Aren’t we supposed to be rebuilding trust? Is changing things behind my back really the best approach for doing that? How can they possibly think that this is going to fly?
So, I zoomed out of the cafe and went straight to nursing. First, the PRN. Relief from rising safety numbers is coming. Then I went to the exam room and I think I talked to Bailey. She’s a good nurse. She advised, “take the PRN”, and asked “what else helps?” A cold pack it is. Then she grabbed my computer, so at least I can write until the clonazepam kicks in and my anxiety rate comes down. Why am I having so many meltdowns? It’s weird. They did this once before, a smoothie instead of a shake, and I just drank the fucking smoothie. It’s not a big deal. But the idea that Courtney planted in my head that there could be extra ingredients in my snack really makes me apprehensive, neigh, skeptical about anything I’m putting in my body that comes from the kitchen.
I’m already wrecked, because one of the dinner questions was, describe your dream home. Of course, no one could know that this question could trigger me. But my sense of home is so fucked up right now. Home was with Danielle and Juniper and the chance of ever going “home” again is almost 0%. I don’t see any scenario where that could ever happen. And that makes me feel so incredibly sad. I want to scream. I want to punch a pillow. I’m begging my brain to let my heart cry. I feel the tears behind my eyes, in the pit of my stomach and up through my chest. I feel the sadness and it is consuming today. Today, I don’t want to start a new chapter. Today I want the old chapter. Danielle is the one person that could tell me, “you can do this. Finish what you started.” and I would. But she’s gone and from the looks of things, she harbors no happy feelings toward me. She doesn’t want to be my friend. She doesn’t want to hear my sadness or joy. She wants me to vanish. I want to vanish, too. It’s days like today that I want to evaporate into another state of matter. One without the responsibility of living life. I think one of Polly’s last dinner questions was, “if you could be a marine animal, what would it be?” My answer was something along the lines of a claim or some other sort of creature that sits at the bottom of the ocean and collects and filters particles. I’m relatively safe from being eaten and my job is super simple. Today, I want to be a clam and I want my shell to be closed. I don’t want to work today. I don’t want to feel the pain because I haven’t figured out how to release it from my stomach and my heart. I haven’t figured out a way to diffuse the thoughts. I just sit and it just hurts.
It’s so lonely here sometimes. I’m not in group because I don’t feel safe right now. My SH/SI numbers are on the rise. Maybe 6/6 or something. Who knows? I can’t stand the thought of sitting in group. This is going to sound super stupid, but I was sitting on the couch that Polly and I shared and Katy came in and took my seat. So I took Polly’s seat. Then Manon came and took my seat, so I slid down to Ella’s couch. I asked and she said it was fine. But then this morning, she moved back to the table with Kirsi. I get it, Kirsi is a really sweet girl and I want to sit with her, too. But having a solid couch mate for group is so important, so Ella moving really hurt my stupid feelings. I guess I just feel rejected. I want to belong so badly. And in so many ways I do. But then shit like this happens and it makes me feel so lonely and unlovable. That broken feeling all over again. It just feels like I’ll never be loved again. I feel unwanted and rejected. And that stimulates the heartbreak all over again. Then all I can think about is Danielle and wonder if nice Danielle will ever exist again. I miss nice Danielle so much.
Let me explain nice Danielle and mean Danielle. So, when we first got back together in 2018, there was nice Danielle. She was beautiful and happy and so in love with me, we cried if we had to be apart for three days. I was traveling back and forth from Seattle to Denver and Seattle to LA. Each time, it felt like we were going to be apart forever. But I always came back. Then we moved to Denver and were so happy. We just enjoyed each other’s company for what it was. There were no expectations. I think at this point, she really did love me for who I was and accepted me and all my strangeness. If I close my eyes, I can still see nice danielle with her beautiful long brown hair and dark brown eyes gazing at me, wearing her red Cornell hoodie as we shared cigarettes and couldn’t stop talking. At this point, she was highly medicated with lithium and her bi-polar disorder was pretty well managed. She’d occasionally cry for no reason and her Dr. told her she needs more sleep than the average person. So she would nap throughout the day and we’d spend mornings and nights together.
But two Thanksgivings ago her psychiatrist, Judy, told her she didn’t think she was bi-polar any more. Apparently that’s a thing? I don’t know. But also, her liver and kidneys were going to shit because of the high doses of lithium. So she and Judy began experimenting with different medications to try and replace lithium. And they found one that helped with the depression, a new med (i forget the name), and she began taking that. I was supposed to help watch for mania, but mania for Danielle isn’t necessarily typical. It’s not impulsivity or uncontrollable shopping sprees. When Danielle is manic, she becomes very, very aggressive. She becomes mean. Top this off with the fact that she started drinking again. Something she did very little of because when we got together, I told her I didn’t like how she treated people when she drank. She’s a mean drunk. She does the weird picking at people thing. I got so embarrassed once in an Uber in Seattle, because she was essentially making fun of the dPolly and I suppose he hadn’t caught on. So she stopped and we just smoked weed. But, back to mean Danielle. Two thanksgivings ago, we went to Tennessee for Thanksgiving and we ended up getting in this huge fight. All I remember is I came back to the hotel. I had eaten some mushrooms, so I was all mellowed out and she was sleeping. I climbed into bed and tried to cuddle with her, something we did all the time. But she got irritated with me and accused me of being wasted. We had plans to go out with her friends that night and we were all going to eat mushrooms together. She had eaten some, too, so I thought, Okay, we’ll start this party off a little early. And I ate slightly more than her. Anyways, I climbed into our shared bed and laid down next to her and started playing with her hair, like I always would. And she woke up, got really mad at me. We had this huge fight and I remember just feeling so distant from her. This was the first time I remember her being truly abusive to me. It started with criticisms of me. I was telling her how beautiful she looked and how much I loved her and she was telling me all the things wrong with me. It was so hurtful. But, I did what I always did when she was emotionally abusive, I tried to appease her. She would criticize and I would promise to fix it. This went on for several hours. Then she got really mad at me and said she was going out without me. That should have been the end of it, but… the trauma bond is real. She said all these hateful things and I begged her to stop and to be nice. When you’re trauma bonded with someone, the abuser will say or do really hateful or ugly things and the abused feels like the whole world is collapsing around them, until the abuser eventually says, “it’s ok” and makes up with the abused. So as she is trying to leave, I am begging her to stop and talk to me. I just needed her to tell me that everything was ok. As the abused, I just needed the chaos that was happening around me to be settled. She and I were in a small suite of a hotel room and I was afraid she’d leave without making things ok and that felt like the end of the world. So I did something stupid and illegal. I blocked the door and sat in front of it. She tried pulling on the door, but it wouldn’t budge. So she started punching me in the face. This was the first time she had ever hit me like that. Out of anger. If you ask her, she’d say out of fear. Maybe it was both, I don’t know. But I blocked the punches and eventually, I just opened the door. I guess we were making quite a lot of noise. Anyways, she walked out of the hotel and the hotel counter lady asked her if everything was ok and she said no. I didn’t have any shoes on and I followed her. I was just trying to get her to stop being angry and talk to me. I didn’t touch her or block her path, I just walked in front of or beside her. She eventually goes into a gas station where she tells the attendant, “this person is following me and trying to hurt me.” And being the badass redneck that he was, he said, “No one’s going to hurt you here little lady.” At that point, I knew there was nothing else that I could do, so I left. They called the police who showed up at the hotel a while later and arrested me for the initial not letting her leave.
We got the charges thrown out, but she left for several days for Kay’s wedding in South Carolina, Kay being her best friend. When she came back, she had covid and the flu. She fully intended to leave me at that point, but I took care of her while she was sick and we eventually made up. She rode home in the back of the van on the bed and we spoke very little. But that was the birth of mean Danielle.
So now when I think about Danielle, I try to picture nice Danielle, the kind, caring, empathetic person that tells me everything is ok. But my thoughts many times go to mean Danielle, who looks very different from nice Danielle. She has short hair with grey streaks and her face carries this anger that cannot be calmed. As time went on over the two years since, mean Danielle became more and more prevalent. Mean Danielle was okay with hurting me, both emotionally and physically. Mean Danielle is erratic. She yells at me. She calls me names. Cunt. Bitch. Pussy. Nothing is off limits. Mean Danielle gets mad over minor comments made on Christmas morning that mean absolutely nothing. Mean Danielle tells me, “don’t touch me.” and hits me if I do. Mean Danielle bit my lip and then beat the shit out of me, breaking my ribs, blacking my eyes. Mean Danielle is who is living in Tennessee with her boyfriend, abandoning her family. Mean Danielle cares only about money and power. Mean Danielle doesn’t believe in me any more. I don’t like mean Danielle, but I tolerated her, because every once in a while, I got nice Danielle that wanted to hug and kiss me and tell me that everything was going to be okay. That we could never be apart for ever, that we love each other too much. It’s thinking about nice Danielle that makes me so sad. I’m crying as I type this, finally, because I love and miss her so much. I know it’s the cycle of abuse. I know I’ll never have nice Danielle back in my life and it’s that loss that causes so much grief. She says that Clara killed Michael. And maybe that’s the case, but mean Danielle killed nice Danielle. My heart is broken. I am broken. I will never be the same. Mean Danielle took my soul and left it to wander the earth, lost and incomplete. I know that mean Danielle doesn’t love me. But I still love her. I would have stuck by her forever, even through the abuse, the violence, the lies. I would stuck by her. Why wouldn’t she stick by me? We promised each other, good or bad, heaven or hell, we were bound. And now she’s gone on with her life as if I never existed. No one can replace her. No one shared the energy that we shared. I will never feel that close with someone again and even if I could I wouldn’t want to. It wasn’t worth it. My life feels ruined along with my heart. I suffer and these thoughts aren’t being diffused. They linger.
So of course I have an eating disorder. I have trauma and I don’t know how to undo all the damage that the trauma has caused me. I feel the pain. I’m at the bottom of the well and the person that would sit with me until we could make our way out abandoned me forever. I can’t fucking kill myself, that would make me a monster. I have Juniper to think about. But I can punish myself. I can refuse food. I can focus on my body. These aren’t recovery oriented thoughts, I know. But they are my thoughts. And right now, I just want to sit at the bottom of the well and let the water flood in and drown me. At this moment of the day, I don’t want to recover at all. I want to let the eating disorder do what it was designed to do, kill me. I want my body to slowly shut down and I don’t want to wake up. I want to be buried here. I thought I would be buried next to Danielle, but now I’ll rest alone, forever. The final heartbreak to the tragedy. I’m crying now because I’m feeling these hard thoughts. I hate pain. I hate loneliness. I miss my friend so much. She understood me. I’m broken, i’ll never be understood again. Why did she have to leave? I just want her to come back and save me. Save me from myself. Save our family. Come home. Sleep in our bed. Wake up next to me. I desperately want to feel that safety that she gave me. I felt so safe. I had a home. I want her to hold me and tell me she’s here. I want her to tell me she loves being my wife. I want her to hold me. I want to feel her skin on my skin. I can still feel our connection. Every day and every night, it’s there. She haunts my dreams. I wake up crying. She was my one true love. Our souls are supposed to stay together. I can taste the tears as they run down my face and into my mouth. They are heavy. These are heavy, dark thoughts. These tears weigh a ton. I feel no relief, just more anguish. Just grief. Why did nice Danielle have to go away?
I don’t want to eat today. I want to hide in my room, like a closed clam. I don’t want to do groups or eat meals. I don’t want to feel like I belong to this community, because it’s not my family. It’s not home. I want to dissolve. Right now, I wish I had my belt. I wish I hadn’t asked for help. I wish I had my escape hatch.
I fantasize about being in our bathtub, the water filled with red rose petals from our garden. My body is still, pale and silent and the water is red with blood and roses. I want Danielle to see that image of me forever. She can move, but she has to carry the burden of my romantic death with her for life. She took away my soul, so I want to give her a final image of me. Pale and without breath. My heart no longer has any blood to carry and I’m finally at peace. Maybe we will find each other in the next life. Maybe our atoms somehow rejoin each other to create something new and beautiful. A molecule that is a new work of art. One that doesn’t end in tragedy. I don’t think I’m going to get better. I think I will die, either from this eating disorder, or from my own hand. I don’t think I can heal. I don’t think I can close this chapter and start a new one. I think my story reads, “The End”. and the crowd stands up, silent and makes their way out of the theatre, feeling the anguish of the main character. Applause would be inappropriate in the same way that it would be wrong to applaud at a funeral. Just a silent goodbye.
These are my thoughts. They aren’t recovery focused today. I don’t know how to be recovery focused when all I feel is pain. To my community, I’m really sorry. I’m letting you down. I don’t mean to, it’s just me. Broken me sitting alone, at the bottom of the well, crying as water fills the hole and drowns me.
I asked for support. I asked for laughter. I asked for conversation. I asked for check-ins. I need support. I don’t know what that looks like beyond those things. More clonazepam? I want to be asleep and at peace. Let me sleep, Kristen. I don’t want to eat. I don’t want to recover today. I thought I did, but I don’t.
But what if this final sleep that I crave so much is full of nightmares, recurring fucking nightmares. What if my energy leaves my body and I become another being that seeks that same fucking things that I seek now. Acceptance, love, home. What if it goes from bad to worse. Fucking life. Why can’t you give us some hint at death. Why can’t we scientifically analyze where our life force goes once it leaves our body still, pale and cold. Once our eyes glass over and our body stiffens.
Now I’m sitting in bed, hoping no one calls me out for lunch and I’m just wondering about this supposed joy that every one keeps bringing up. Broken me can’t feel anything, especially joy. But if I were to recover, then I could feel joy. But to recover I must sit with the pain and diffuse the thoughts and the thoughts won’t diffuse, no matter how hard I try. This is why giving up looks like my best chance. But these aren’t recovery focused thoughts. How do I make my thoughts recovery focused? I partition of the pain that I’m feeling. I’ve felt it now. It hurt. Now I have to find contentment in the things that I still have in my life. Juniper, for one. She is joy. She is a shining star on a clear evening in the mountains, where everything sits silently. Where all the sky is lit by the moon and the stars and there’s no man made light to pollute the beauty. Where the universe is visible to my naked eye. Juniper makes me happy. I miss Juniper.
I want to make a new family. I want Brandon to be part of that family, but I don’t know if that is realistic. He’s great and he really cares about me. But he’s committed to so many different things that make him happy. Danielle said, I’ll never be enough for him. And while I know she was just trying to hurt me, I also think she was partially right. He’ll spend weekends with me, but his life is complex, too many moving pieces. But I want to give him a shot. He wants to get to know Juniper better. He’s come every weekend to see me and cheer me up. We snuggle, we kiss and we talk about life. He’s a good listener. He shares with me his struggles and successes. He’s balanced. But I’m only one stone on a scale that has 1000 stones. I guess I’ll just have to see where we end up.
At least when I think about him, I can stop crying and I get butterflies in my stomach and tingles all over my body.
I guess all this nonsense about, “I’m here all day” and “come back if things get worse” etc is complete bullshit. I am ripping out my hair and actively trying to come up with something else besides my belt (they took it) to hang myself.Like this isn’t a fucking joke and I’m not doing it for attention. And here I have no accountability to Juniper, she’s taken care of, so it’s bombs away. I’m just not quite sure what to use. I asked Bailey for help and she told me to go see the med nurse. I’m not even sure of her name, but she’s really bad at her job. She said, “let’s do a check in, would that help?” And I told Bailey told me to piss off, which is true. So we go outside to do a check in and it’s all shallow, superficial questions. I’m trying to explain what’s going on in my head and she’s just saying, “yeh, that sounds tough” and “well maybe you’ll learn to like it again” or some stupid fucking bullshit. No. Just fucking no. I don’t know how either of the nurses could be more dismissive. And I guess someone briefed them on me and said I’m worried about going to PHP or something and that’s why I’m skipping meals. No, you fucking idiots. I’m fine with going to PHP on June 1. That’s great. What I’m not happy about is my meal plan and the bullshit Courtney pulled over this weekend. What I’m not ok with is gaining more weight. What I want, and I keep telling you this, is to quit and relapse. Like, 100% relapse. In fact, I would discharge tonight if they’d let me. I know they won’t, but if I could walk out the door with all my stuff, I’d do it tonight. I’d agree to go to PHP and just never show up. That’s kind of my plan anyways. Sign me up for PHP and then just not go. Not eat. Relapse. I don’t want recovery. At least not today. And if I still had my belt, I would absolutely hang myself right fucking now. Plan. Intent. It’s all there bitches. And you’re telling me to try a hot and cold pack. Fucking brilliant. How do I make this any more clear? So now I’m just left with the question of, what can I use in lieu of a belt. Sheets would work, but I’d need a way to cut them. I don’t think any of my strings are strong enough, like from hoodies or whatever. I’m drawing a blank here. But I am a crafty motherfucker, so give me enough time and I’ll figure it out.
Do I need to have Kristen print my suicide note in 22 pt font and make a few copies? What do I need to do?
I DO NOT FEEL SAFE. I HAVE VERY HIGH SI. I’M NOT JUST TRYING TO GET ATTENTION. I HAVE A HALF-WIT dumb PLAN and I HAVE INTENT. Oh. but I guess those are the right questions to ask me, because, “She’s anxious about going to PHP.” Seriously? Who the fuck briefed these assholes on me. They did a terrible fucking job. And now I don’t want to go talk to Bailey because I feel like I’m annoying her. She was a bitch just a minute ago. Like, what the actual fuck? I don’t know what to do. Urge surf my suicide attempt.
Jesus. I feel so alone right now. I feel like no one cares. These fucking nurses. They were supposed to be the ones that care. And they don’t care. I don’t know if they just don’t think I’m serious or what. But it hurts.
It’s 6:01 PM – I ate dinner. I didn’t want to, but I did it. I plan on skipping HS snack. I’m going to try and get my night meds early and fall asleep before snack. If the night nurse is who I think she is, I’m also going to try and talk to her. I can’t remember her name, but she’s really fucking nice. She’s a little bit older and will take me seriously. I’m so disappointed in nursing today. Why did Bailey blow me off and act like I was an annoyance? It’s crazy.
Dinner questions were fun. It never takes more than one guess for the whole community to guess me. It’s kind of funny. I only answer if I can come up with some elaborate, ridiculous answer. I’m funny. It’s a fact. I write funny answers that are sweet, but also capture my personality. My idea of a perfect date, a shopping spree and fashion show for Brandon, who compliments my purchases. My ideal house, a home with love, laughter, companionship and a reasonably sized, but not obsessive, vinyl collection.
I feel like I’m literally waiting for nursing change, so I can have a real conversation. What a fucked up scenario. I’m ratting Bailey out and she’s going to get in deep shit. Like what the actual fuck. I deserve to be heard and taken seriously.
I guess it’s the depression today. All the writing that I’ve been doing. It is a lot to process. But I don’t feel better. I actually feel worse. I feel lonelier and more abandoned than ever. I feel hopeless and lost. I want to die. I don’t have a solid plan. But I have the intent. I shouldn’t have told on myself the other night. I should have kept the belt for just such an occasion. But, aye, there is the difference. That nurse actually did her job and gave a shit. I just need someone to hear me. And Jackie, if that’s her name, sucks. She just placated me and hug- boxed me. I don’t need someone to try and make me feel good. I need someone to sit in the well with me. To validate me and take me seriously. Jen is here tonight. I plan on bringing it up with her that Bailey told me to piss off. That was really fucked up. You work in a psych ward. Maybe you should take patients seriously. I am high risk for fuck’s sake. And I’m very impulsive. And I’m extremely fucking resourceful. I’m very high stress right now. I’ve got big changes coming up. I don’t care about going to PHP you fucking twats. I care about not feeling safe. I care about not dying. It’s such a weird predicament to be in, because I want to die, but I don’t want to at the same time.
I just had a nice chat with Nurse Brandon. I like him, he’s legit. He was asking about safety numbers and I told him my SH/SI was 10/6, which it is. I’m not making this up and it has nothing to do with the step down date. I am happy with the step down date. Seriously, motherfuckers, I negotiated that date and it’s a date that I am absolutely committed to and want to step down. I want to get the fuck out of here. I want to see BF Brandon and spend some real time with him. I want to see juniper for more than an hour a week. But in terms of is the SH/SI real, yes it’s fucking real. I am goddamn high risk, you fucking twats. I think Nurse Brandon believes me, which is nice. He wanted to chat more about it, but there was a line of like literally everyone on the unit. I asked him to make a note in the fucking chart, I am happy with the goddamn stepdown date. The SH/SI has very little to do with that at this point. What it does have to do with is my failed marriage and losing my best friend and feeling alone, even when I’m sitting with a big group of people. It has to do with not wanting to gain a bunch of weight and lose my figure. It has to do with not being ready to take on this divorce. This divorce is going to be a nightmare. It’s literally me fighting with my best friend and the love of my life over the division of everything we’ve worked on and everything that mattered for the last 8 almost 9 years. That’s what it’s about. It’s about all the above bullshit that I had to sit with today. I sat in the pain and I’m still sitting in it. It’s about knowing that part of recovering from this illness is going to be facing things like cooking and ordering food. It’s about knowing that after a few weeks, I leave the apartments here, where I’m surrounded by supportive people, well, mostly supportive people, and will be doing this alone. Nurse Brandon sees that. And my response was, I have to leave sometime. I can’t stay here forever. No, talking to Alina or whatever the fuck her name is, doesn’t help. I have high SI. I am high risk. There is tons of research on this. Even after transition, risk of SI remains really high, especially when you combine the social aspects of shit. Including marriage, family, and friends that either choose to accept you as you are or don’t. Danielle didn’t. She rejected me. Not just as a romantic partner and spouse, but as her friend. That’s why I have high SH/SI. That’s why being safe is so important for me. I’m not in a good place. I’m going through hell and I’m about to do it on my own again. And that thought is terrifying. But I’m not choosing not to eat because I think they’ll let me stay longer. Actually, it’s quite the opposite. Dr. Parsley is committed to the step down date that we agreed upon, so I figure, who gives a shit what I eat and don’t eat, or if I gain or lose weight. The date is going to stay the same. So I don’t even really have to try any more. I can just give up now. Up until the point where Alina and Courtney cornered me in a room and gave me a 2 week plan to get me out the door, I thought I was setting goals and working towards them. But apparently my goals weren’t good enough, so “my team” made goals for me. Fine, so be it. I’m on board with the plan. But I’m not going to continue going to meals and I’m not going to eat shit I don’t like. I’m going to eat what I want. I’m going to go to meals when I fucking feel like it. There’s no point in caring anymore.
And frankly, it was the meal plan change without my knowledge that made me not eat those snacks. First it was the weird shake + supplement and the bitter shit that I bit into. Then it was the change to a smoothie without my knowledge. I don’t know what’s in that shit. I think we covered this already. And I don’t trust it at all. So no, I’m not going to eat it. And then there’s also the fact that our target weight goals are not the same. They think they are throwing me a bone by making my target weight 140. They’re not. I said 135 and I mean 135. Keep pushing me to go higher and I’m going to fucking quit. Fuck them and their goals. I feel disgusted by the thought of being 140 lbs. I’m not going to be happy about it. So, my active goal is to lose as much weight as I can in the next 16 days or whatever. I’m going to skip any meal or snack that I can and I’m going to over-exercise as much as I can. I’m going to walk 4-6 miles per day, which is about what I was doing at home with the step counter. And I’m going to try and make a calorie deficit. I’m not going to get on board with their plan until Courtney and Dr. Parsley agrees that 135 is an appropriate target weight. 135. Not 137, 138, 139, 140. One Hundred and Thirty Five. That’s it. That’s all I’ll agree to do. Anorexia sucks. I want my body autonomy back. I want to be the one making decisions about how much I should eat and when. I want to make decisions about how much I should weigh and how I want my body to look. Is that the eating disorder talking? Maybe. But I don’t care, I’m past the point of caring what they think is appropriate. And unlike most of the other girls here, I don’t let my parents dictate to me what I do with my health care. It’s my body and my decisions. As I said, the only person that I cared about what they thought was Danielle and she fucking abandonned me. So, fuck it. I’ve already started my relapse and I’m going to dive in head first the moment I’m free from here. I’ve gained nothing from being here and I’m ready to go home. I’m only agreeing to PHP because they are insisting. Sure, sign me up. I’m not going to go and I’m not going to eat. I don’t want to eat. That’s my real mantra. I don’t want to eat. I can be hungry. I can live on 500 calories a day. I can make 10,000 steps a day. I’m going back to where I came from and I don’t care if it kills me. I’ll be happier dead. But NO, I’m not trying to delay my step down date. I AM FUCKING HAPPY WITH MY STEPDOWN DATE. That’s a date I chose and that’s the date I’m committed to stepping down.
Now, about this HS snack. Fuck it. I’m going to sleep. I’ll see you all at 2am, after my nightmares wake me up again.
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