In an hour, I go off to therapy. As I figure it, there’s a good chance my therapist may choose to hospitalize me. It all depends on how I play my cards. And I want to play well. Very well.
I want to appear as put-together as possible. I want to look toward the future, not focus on my present decrepit condition. I want to keep the focus off of my poor eating. I want to ask about when this interview will be for my new treatment, and talk about the next step, and the supposed optimism I have that the treatment will work, or at least the glimmer of nonexistent hope I have that it will. I’ll take out my snack and eat it right in front of her before she even asks about it. I’ll tell her my eating has improved. Never mind when or by how much. That I have eaten today and yesterday. Never mind what the portions were. That I have no intentions of cheating the scale Monday. And you know something? I have no plans to water-load at all. Not this time.
Why do I see my treatment team as the enemy? I have seen them as the enemy for a long time now. First, it was just my psychiatrist and not my therapist. Now, it’s both. They are on my case all the time. Accusations of lying. Accusations of not eating. Threats, at every session, to put me in the hospital. I get out of it by the skin of my teeth. And the hospital, a place where I am supposed to be made welcome, and get healthy, I view as worse than Death Itself. What’s wrong with this picture?
But who is it that sees my “treatment”–both the team and the hospital–as the enemy? Is it my starvation? Or the Julie within? Is it my anorexia, or me that views the team as against me all the time? Are they trying to squelch me, or my starvation? Are they only trying to keep me alive, trying to keep me from losing more weight? Is it the part of me that wants to lose more weight–is it that part that hates them?
Where–where am I? What on earth has happened to–me? Is there anything left to me besides starvation? I am shrinking–my body is shrinking–is my soul shrinking, too? Am I anything more than a walking, talking, thinking, obsessing ED? Will I ever get my life back? Will I ever get my mind back?
All these questions are swirling in my mind as I pack my stuff for therapy today, as I write these words, as I glance at Puzzle, and remember that she needs a mama, and that mama is me. Today, at least today, I have choices. I’ve got to remember this.