I sent this e-mail to my therapist right about 4:25 yesterday: (Happy weekend, therapist!)
I think we should start doing counseling by e-mail. It would probably be much more effective for me that way. I was talking to/texting a friend after I left program and telling her how unsettled and unsafe I feel going into the weekend. She got really concerned, saying that if I, who tend to minimize things, was concerned for my safety, it was probably sort of serious. Thus, she wanted me to e-mail you.
I was sitting in your office this afternoon and thinking, “I just want to die.” That simple. I have plenty of ways I could go about it and while I don’t necessarily PLAN to do so, there’s nothing to say I wouldn’t in a moment of impulse. I was driving home today, thinking about restricting (and the inevitable bingeing it leads to) and thought very seriously that I would rather kill myself than binge again.
So, this is NOT an e-mail to tell you that I’m planning something or planning to hurt myself or anything of the sort. Please don’t go and call my mother or send the cops after me or something. I know the plan – keep myself safe, go to the ER if I can’t. I just figure that my not being totally honest with you f**ks with your ability to help me as much as being noncompliant with my meds.
That is all.
To be clear, the f-bomb was one that my therapist dropped initially, so I was simply quoting her assessment that my not taking my meds as prescribed kind of screws with my team’s ability to help me out. And to be perfectly honest, I appreciate the fact that my therapist doesn’t mind cursing for emphasis. She certainly got her point across. Not well enough that I’ve taken my meds yet today, but that’s an entirely different story.
Things sort of derailed after my road trip with my mother and I essentially started restricting as soon as I got home. My dietitian was actually pretty impressed with how I handled the challenges of the weekend and reassured me that I hadn’t gained any weight (but had actually lost a little). Regardless, I was freaking out about what I had eaten over the weekend and was sure that I could not possibly continue eating that way. Besides, if I could lose a little eating fairly normally, why not cut back just a little more and try to get down to a weight I can be happy maintaining?
Two problems here, folks:
1. When you’re recovering from a restrictive eating disorder, there is no such thing as “just a little.”
2. Good luck finding a weight you’ll be happy maintaining. There are always five more pounds to lose.
So now I’m [half-heartedly] attempting to jump back on the proverbial wagon, if for no other reason than my team started uttering an entirely different F word this week: Florida. To be honest, Florida just isn’t an option (again). I’ve got a job interview in one week and standardized testing in three. There’s a lot to lose this time around — this job is an awesome fit and this may be my only shot. Not to mention the fact that I cannot possibly go back to Florida and have my movement restricted once again. I’ve barely gotten back into the swing of things here and can’t continue to disrupt my life for residential treatment (even if I agree with my team that it makes a lot of sense).
Unfortunately, this means I’ve got to do the dirty work of eating and feeling and participating in groups and individual therapy. Work that I am less than thrilled about, as I’m sure you can understand. And on that note, it’s probably time for lunch. Yay?