Exactly 2 weeks from this moment, I will be in Utah having just completed my first dinner of treatment. I will be waiting in line for vitals and anxiously awaiting the hour that I can finally change into pajama pants. I will be choking down my calcium supplement on a too-full stomach and trying my hardest not to fight with the nurse on duty about the utter lack of necessity of such a supplement.
I haven’t had much in the way of words lately. I am exhausted. Tired all the time. Drinking diet soda like it is a life line. You may as well just put an IV in.
This week has been particularly rough, having begun with a night of panic on Monday after flashbacks invaded my brain for over an hour. I shook, cried, jumped at any noise, had to keep a light on in my room, and tried my hardest to not even blink, for fear of the images that might appear in those dark moments. I hate that I have to make it through an entire weekend (and a holiday weekend at that) before I can hash all this out with my therapist.
With every day closer to treatment, my self-harm urges are rising, no doubt due to the additional anxiety and the knowledge that I won’t be able to do these things when I arrive. I’m trying to hang on, but man alive — it is not easy.
It’s happening too quickly and not nearly quickly enough.