The following post is brought to you by the letters A, P and the number 12.A as in anorexia, the eating disorder T believes I have.
P as in the pills she thinks might help me cope better.
And 12 as in the approximate number of hours I spent crying about all this over the weekend.
I hadn't seen her in three weeks so I knew I'd have loads to say when I went in for our session Friday evening. The BBQ, the sleepover, the crying, the hospital visit. And that was just three days worth. I didn't expect what she said after I finished telling her what I'd gone through: that I was starving myself to death; that I had anorexia; that I was withering away, have lost so much weight and looked like a broomstick; that she feels she hasn't helped me very much; that I'm getting worse; that I might need more help than she can give me; that maybe pills would help after all; that maybe I should consider group sessions.
I just sat on that chair and cried. I refused to admit that I had anorexia. I know I've lost weight and that I've never eaten as much as I probably should, but when I pointed out that I would never want to lose weight on purpose she said that's a common stereotype about the disease. That it's not just about wanting to be thinner, it's about wanting control over your body and feel as if you can survive without needing to eat. I was still in denial. I wasn't just going to believe it because she was telling me so. But then the other part thought maybe she was right...maybe that's just something else to add to the list of things wrong with me: depression and anxiety with a dash of anorexia. How positively hopeless. I truly believed I was never going to get better.
If the person I had been seeing for almost a year, who many times told me I was improving drastically and making changes by leaps and bounds, now felt that I was on this downward spiral, what did I have left? Everything I had done seemed pointless; the few steps forward, worthless. Like I was taking two steps toward the light and then five jumps back.
But as the weekend wore on, anger set in (I'm not grieving, but DABDA anyone?). How dare she make me feel so ready to give it all up? If anything, the thought of things improving was what helped me go in every week and bear through countless sessions of poking, searching, questioning, thinking, answering.
Therapy is tremendously hard. I don't know how people do it for decades since it takes such a toll on you. Whoever tells you it's always all peaches when they go in for a session isn't really working at it. So I know I still have work to do and can't let one session make me throw everything out the window. But I do have half a mind to totally tell her off come Wednesday evening. Politely of course.
I actually haven't weighed myself since that thing happened three weeks ago. Seventy-six pounds. I'd never seen a number so low staring back at me from a scale. Granted I had just finished shedding five pounds in tears, but you'd think the bags under my eyes would've counterbalanced that. Either way I've been too scared to check again and the scale has been banished to Under The Bed until Who Knows When.
If the person I had been seeing for almost a year, who many times told me I was improving drastically and making changes by leaps and bounds, now felt that I was on this downward spiral, what did I have left? Everything I had done seemed pointless; the few steps forward, worthless. Like I was taking two steps toward the light and then five jumps back.
But as the weekend wore on, anger set in (I'm not grieving, but DABDA anyone?). How dare she make me feel so ready to give it all up? If anything, the thought of things improving was what helped me go in every week and bear through countless sessions of poking, searching, questioning, thinking, answering.
Therapy is tremendously hard. I don't know how people do it for decades since it takes such a toll on you. Whoever tells you it's always all peaches when they go in for a session isn't really working at it. So I know I still have work to do and can't let one session make me throw everything out the window. But I do have half a mind to totally tell her off come Wednesday evening. Politely of course.
I actually haven't weighed myself since that thing happened three weeks ago. Seventy-six pounds. I'd never seen a number so low staring back at me from a scale. Granted I had just finished shedding five pounds in tears, but you'd think the bags under my eyes would've counterbalanced that. Either way I've been too scared to check again and the scale has been banished to Under The Bed until Who Knows When.
And as this posts, I'll be sitting in a waiting room for my first physical in a year. I'll be dreading the moment I meet my new physician and am forced to step on that scale and hear her mention something along the lines of "You're underweight." No kidding, I'll think as I muster half a smile. And then I'll ask her for a prescription for multivitamins and appetite stimulants because those are the only pills I'll be consuming for now.
So this post is also brought to you by two other letters: B and S. Because no matter how much weight I lose, I'll be damned if I let someone get away with calling me a household cleaning supply regardless of whether they're trying to help me or not.