Today my therapist told me that if I keep on doing what I’m doing, not eating right and losing weight, I will die. I don’t think that I will die anytime soon. I think that I will live to be 100.
I admitted to her that I’ve been deliberately restricting my intake since November (since Nano, actually). This was very difficult to confess. I know now that this information will get back to Dr. P and that’s not good. Also, when I got weighed at my primary care doctor’s office yesterday, I had dropped a pound. Why quibble over a pound? But to these doctors, a pound means something.
I see Dr. P on Thursday and I know I’ll get The Lecture. We go through this every month. “Why won’t you gain weight?” “Because I don’t want to.” “Why don’t you want to?” And so on. It’s idiotic and pointless and non-productive.
Dr. P very well may put me in the hospital someday. She says she will do this if my weight reaches 90 pounds. I will make certain that it does not do so, but in case I slip up, I need to be prepared….If I do end up in the hospital, I plan to put in a “three-day,” which is basically a way of getting out of there unless a judge deems one a danger to oneself or others. I told my therapist that I would do this, that it was pointless to hospitalize me against my will.
My therapist asked me if it means anything to me that I might die, and I told her that I don’t believe I will die. I have never felt more alive. Everything is going right for me. This has been my year. I finished my thesis, earned my degree, got published, wrote another book, took up stand-up…the list goes on. So how can I be dying? I’m even building muscles at the gym–my body is getting stronger, not weaker.
When I took off my clothes the other day, when I was preparing to shower, I saw a fat person. I was so frightened! This person was not me! I appeared to weigh about 140 pounds or so. I pinched myself and felt the fat tissues. I was truly fat. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It was real. I know I am not fat–but I was! Right there! I witnessed it!
So what am I to think? Why is it that I do this idiot thing, losing weight? Enough is enough, right? It’s past the point of wanting to fit into my clothes, because all my clothes are loose on me, or to try to look more attractive, because too skinny isn’t attractive. I’m freezing cold all the time. I have to wear a hat indoors. Being cold is the worst of it. Why is it that I don’t just call it quits while I’m still okay and breathing? Why is it always “more, more, more?”
There is a line from my stand-up act: “My mother…she’s short, getting shorter, and shorter, and shorter…she’s almost disappearing…I’m kind of looking forward to that.”
But I myself am doing anything but disappearing, or so I think.