I don’t know what happened. Something in me snapped. I started starving myself again. And with it came some scary stuff.
I eat very little sometimes. Sometimes, I eat nothing at all. I keep Gatorade handy in case I feel dizzy and think I might pass out. I haven’t passed out, but I do get dizzy sometimes, and I drink a few gulps of Gatorade and feel okay again.
Once, I felt faint in the night. I knew I had to get something into my system right away. Careful not to fall, I walked into the kitchen, got some milk out of the fridge, drank about 12 ounces, and felt better in about a minute. In the morning, I felt okay, and told no one.
Last weekend, I kept the phone right by my side, in case I had to call an ambulance. I made note of where the pull-strings were in my apartment. These I could use to summon help if I needed it, should I fall and be unable to get up. I kept Gatorade handy, and carried it into the bathroom with me in case I couldn’t get up from the toilet. I printed out my list of emergency numbers, insurance numbers, medications, etc, and put it in a knapsack, along with some reading materials and knitting, in case I ended up in an emergency room, where there would certainly be a lot of waiting around.
My friends were begging me to go to the ER. Yet I feared the ER more than anything. Because the ER meant the possibility of ending up inpatient again, either in a psych ward or ED hospital. So I ACTUALLY RISKED MY HEALTH to avoid the hospital. That’s how badly I do not want to go. Sad.
Instead, I toughed it out on my own. Relied on my resources. Even called a suicide hotline twice during the weekend. Their help was amazing. My friends were amazing. And if it weren’t for Puzzle, I wouldn’t be around to be writing this. Puzzle needs her mama.
One night last week, I had a dream that I was facing two gates: the Gate of Life and the Gate of Death. That was the dream. There was no resolution. I was just standing there before the two gates. They looked exactly the same.
For some reason, my therapist saw something positive in that dream. I see nothing positive in it. I feel suicidal 24 hours a day, seven days a week. I even feel suicidal in my sleep. This is fucking crazy. I will not act on these overwhelming thoughts because Puzzle needs her mama. But having these desires, and resisting them, is zapping my energy.
It feels like the ED is going to kill me, so what’s the use? I have no motivation whatsoever.
All I have to do is to eat. Simple, right?
I get weighed on Monday, see my therapist Tuesday, my psychiatrist Wednesday, get a break Thursday, and then see my therapist Friday. Meanwhile, today is Saturday. I have to survive tonight, and overnight, and tomorrow, and tomorrow night. Last week, for some weird reason, my weight was not affected by my recent starvation. I was lucky. This Monday, I might be lucky again. I might not be. Bodies are weird. Life is pretty weird, too, and ED’s make no sense whatsoever.