This has been the constant refrain of my treatment team for the last two weeks. Usually with an added, “The HEALTHY ONES!”
I haven’t felt much like writing. There’s nothing really to write. Treatment sucks, I’m barely compliant, and they’ve threatened to discharge me twice already this week. Today the psychiatrist asked me if they got approval for me to go inpatient if I would do it. Part of me just wanted to say, “Sure, why the heck not,” knowing that there is no way in heck that insurance is going to cover my fat arse going into hospital. A much larger part of me thought, “Well, if they did – by some freak act of God – cover it, there is no way I’m going.”
My motivation is steadily falling and I am becoming increasingly depressed. So depressed, in fact, that a conversation with a friend last night ended with that friend calling the local police who showed up banging on my door at 9:30 pm. Let me tell you, THAT was a fun conversation to have with my parents (who answered the door).
In all honesty, despite my weight being higher, I’m much closer to where I was this time last year (just before residential) than where I was when I entered PHP in March. Of course, my insurance doesn’t cover residential, so even considering a higher level of care is moot. My family is STILL paying off my last stint in Florida, and I can’t possibly go again.
It seems hopeless, honestly. It’s not pretty and it’s not uplifting, but it’s real. That’s just where I am right now.
But hey, on the bright side – I blogged. And surely that counts as using one of my [practically non-existent] coping skills, right?