Insidious Whispers and Deafening Screams

I mentioned in my last post the the dictator has been whispering in my ear lately, trying to convince me that a relapse into old behaviours wouldn’t be at all a bad thing. I mean, it wouldn’t be a *real* relapse, I’d just restrict and run and life would still run perfectly and I’d have no consequences for my behaviours, I’d just be thin. (Which is totally ridiculous and has never happened to date and, in fact, each relapse is worse than the last, so I’d probably be dead.)

So that has been floating around in my head the past week. Undoubtedly it is related to the stress of the new semester starting, my feelings of utter incompetence when it comes to my chosen field, my highly regimented/probably overbooked schedule, and somewhat overwhelming extracurricular obligations/responsibilities. It has absolutely nothing to do with the food, my body, my weight. Just the stress. (Or so Counselor-Jessica is telling Deranged-Jessica.)

Anyway, that is background for my tale, in which this whisper becomes a wailing siren call on Tuesday. It was the first day of class, so I was already a bit nervous, but our prof for this class is really, really great and very down-to-earth. (She brought brownies! And coffee! And tea! And stress balls!) Early on, she said that she went into counseling because it saved her life. So, ya know, same reason as me.

We were asked to go around and introduce ourselves and tell what drew us to counseling. So I was prepared to just say, “Hey, I’m Jess, I’m a second year CMHC with expressive arts focus and I’m going into this field because counseling definitely saved my life more than once.” For the most part, my cohort (the 15 students I entered the program with last fall) knows about my ED and treatment history and I’m fairly open about it. That said, I don’t generally introduce myself by saying, “Hey, I’m Jess and I’m recovering from an eating disorder.

I was, by virtue of the room layout, the last person to do an introduction. When it came my turn, here is what I said:

“I’m Jess. I’m in the CMHC program with an expressive arts emphasis and I am really going into counseling because it absolutely saved my life on more than one occasion. And I’ve been in and out of a few eating disorder treatment centers and had some really great counselors and some really awful counselors and hope to be one of the good ones.”

So why the mention of the eating disorder treatment?


About halfway through the classroom introductions, a young woman explained that she was drawn counseling after her “five year stint with anorexia” (this is actually how she worded it). Alarms started going off in my head. The dictator started screaming.

I needed to defend my ground.

I needed to make sure that everyone knew that I, too, had an eating disorder.

I needed to make sure that everyone knew that it had been so bad I’d had to go to treatment.

I needed to make sure that everyone knew that I’d relapsed and had to go back again and again.

I needed to make sure that everyone knew that I was really sick. (Read: I was thin.)

Because that is just the way the eating disordered brain works. It’s sick and twisted, but my eating disorder still needs to be validated. It still needs that gasp of breath that people do when they hear how much weight I lost in less than a year, that look of pity when I talk about the tube, the almost-jealousy when they hear all the “bad” foods I got to eat freely in treatment to put on weight.

It pisses me off that I feel I so badly “need” this, even after all my time and work in recovery. It pisses me off that some part of me still glamourizes the eating disorder, some part of me still wants it.

I don’t need it and it isn’t glamorous.

It’s hell.

And I need to keep reminding myself of that, but damn if the Dictator isn’t loud these days.


But which is silver and which is gold?

Make new friends, but keep the old — One is silver and the other gold.

Sometimes, I feel like I don’t matter at all to friends. A good friend of mine is having a baby in June and had a baby shower yesterday. I only knew because I saw a picture someone posted and asked another friend what I had missed. And I logged in to facebook tonight to see that some friends of mine are going to a shower for her next weekend. I was invited to neither.

I was tagged in a photoset over the weekend as well – a Sex and the City post:


The friend who tagged me said in the caption how this reminded her of college and all of our “couch therapy sessions”! I definitely laughed when I saw it, but it also hurt my heart.

I haven’t talked to the friend who posted it in over two years.

I sent her a card last year, a letter of amends for all the wrong I had done over the course of my eating disorder. She responded briefly saying she would respond further, but never did. But she has tagged me in a few photos of “the good times” recently and it has left me wondering why. When she posted this, I sent her a message telling her I missed her and this photo made me laugh and mourn simultaneously. Facebook has told me that she read the message over 24 hours ago. But she hasn’t responded.

I am in tears because I feel like I don’t matter to anybody. I’m not invited to your baby shower, for pete’s sake? That time when you invite people over to fawn over you and play games and give you free stuff? I’m not even important enough that you would ask me for free stuff?!

I realize that this is taking it to an extreme in thought distortion world, but it really does seem that pronounced at times. I feel like I can’t look anywhere without seeing the wreckage my eating disorder has wrought on my relationships over the past five years.

But then I remember that I have new friends. Friends who are willing to listen to me whine and cry about these old friendships. Friends who are willing to house me for a few days while I visit – the first time I’ve ever done so in an emotionally healthy place. Friends who gift me with inspirational collages they’ve made because they think of me when they see it on their wall and want me to have it. Friends who surprise me by sending me a ginormous tin of the most awesome silly putty ever.

I am so incredibly thankful for these friends. I would not have survived the past year without these friends. They have saved my life, time and again.

But so did those other friends. At what point do I become “too much” for these new friends, too?

Is life just one long series of relationships coming and going? It seems that it is. Some relationships stay, but plenty others fade in and out – including those you thought for sure would last to the end of time.

Life is this uncomfortable mingling of tears of joy followed by tears of grief.

I Said “Breathe,” Not “Hyperventilate”

So, yeah. All that adorable optimism and chutzpah in my last post pretty much went out the window by Wednesday. I honestly don’t know that I even have the energy to hash the whole thing out, but suffice it to say, my recovery had a VERY close call this week.

Between Wednesday at about noon until I woke up on Friday morning, I was a hot.mess. I’m not entirely sure how I survived Thursday, honestly, as I was extremely dehydrated and undernourished and in a post-SH induced haze. Add a cup or two of shame and a dose of fear and you’ll understand why I was utterly shocked to hear my professor suggest that I go on to a doctoral program.

Me, the girl who had just met with her dietitian because she couldn’t fathom the idea of a meal. Me, the girl that went to health services for an SH wound and was not allowed to leave in the hour that passed between my arrival and the first available appointment. Me, the girl who had gone to bed at seven the night before because she could not deal with life any more. Me, the girl who had seriously considered ending her life for the first time in almost a year.

It started with a therapy session on Wednesday, though to understand the whole story, you need to know that these things were playing in the background:

  • I was at the state counseling conference and listened to a presentation about the new DSM-V eating disorder diagnostic criteria and discovered that they now rate the severity of EDs as from “mild” to “severe”
  • At the same conference, I made the mistake of sitting in on a session about working with traumatized women in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, where “trauma” = “sexual violence” and I spent an hour outside trying not to jump out of my skin

And I totally thought I had done a good job recognizing and processing it and told my counselor about it first thing during our [phone] session. What I did not anticipate was her pushing and pushing on the physical reaction I had during the trauma session.

Why was I so hypervigilant? I needed to keep an eye on everything. Why? So I don’t get hurt. Where did I learn that? …in college. When? …at the bar. When? …I can’t go there today. That’s as close as we’re going to get today, April. 

Everything in me was screaming under the weight of shame.

In a lot of ways, I have made a LOT of progress since I have come back from treatment. Unfortunately, after God-only-knows how many hours and thousands of dollars on therapy, I still believe that I came out of the womb a priori fucked up. My life has been idyllic, nobody has done anything to me, and there is basically no reason that I should struggle because my life has been PERFECT. It’s ME that’s fucked up.

On Wednesday, when I said for the millionth time that I’m just fucked up, my therapist refused to play along. She said that we are at the point in counseling where I need to either dig deep and challenge that (by acknowledging how people hurt me, failed me, missed me) or there’s nowhere to go. And if we don’t go there, what are we going to do in therapy? Keep me from going crazy; maintain the status quo, I said.

She won’t. Either we dive into my story or we need to consider terminating the counseling relationship. If I want a therapist who will help me to maintain my behaviours where they are, I need to find a new one. And while her motives are so pure (she wants true freedom and healing for me, but that means I’ve got to push ahead), I was (and am) upset nonetheless.

April has been my counselor for YEARS. She calls me on my shit. She knows more of my story than anyone else. She has cursed at me, challenged me, eaten with me, laughed with me, comforted me. The idea of losing her as a counselor is terrifying.

Equally terrifying is the prospect of acknowledging how and when people have hurt me and coming face-to-face with the brokenness in me. I insisted time and again in Wednesday’s session that I’m just not ready for that kind of work, and she repeatedly told me that she thinks I am. I cried as our session wound down and she told me that I needed to seriously think about if I’m going to continue therapy.

Above all, she said – it’s an issue of trust. Do I trust my friends, family, and community to hold me up when I’m so weak I can barely stand? Do I trust April to be a wise guide and to walk me through this? Most of all, do I believe that my God and my Saviour is waiting to bind up the broken places in me and heal them?

Yes. And no.

The fear is positively crippling. I feel like I am just barely keeping my head above water this semester. And if I messed up so much and so badly over the course of 36 hours just talking about the possibility of doing this sort of storywork…

How much worse is it going to be when I actually do it?



On the Verge

That’s me, according to my counselor: “on the verge of doing some serious growing up.”

At first when she said this, I brushed if off, saying, “Well it’s about freaking time!”

She says, “Here I am trying to say something nice and encouraging to you and you ruin it.” It was said playfully, though she was absolutely right – I had responded in a way that pushed her away and didn’t allow me to receive what she was saying.

So I’ve been thinking and praying a lot tonight, trying to receive not only that, but an unconditional, loving acceptance that she offered when we were discussing some mistakes and regrets I have from the past year. And she’s right – I’m on the threshold of something new, a maturity and grown-up-ness that I’ve never known before.

Tonight, I realized that there will actually be a time in the future when I won’t need weekly counseling any more. I never ever ever thought that possible.

Crazy, but good.

500 Words or Less

I have a ton of papers due in the next two weeks and the words just are not coming.

So in an effort to save words for those that will be graded, I am attempting to give you the update of my life in 500 words or less.

School: Love it. The structure, the reading, the difficult discussions, the ACCESS TO ALL THE JOURNALS I WANT TO READ.  Awesome.

Work: I get paid to play with an adorable munchkin three days a week. Stress relief plus money! And nap time! Awesome.

Social Life: Basically, I have one. At least once a week, I’m going out with someone up here, be it to a meal, out for froyo, or for a hike. I’ve had to be very intentional about this, because mostly, everything in me wants to stay at home every night and curl up in front of a movie on amazon.

Service: I started volunteering at a local homeless/transitional shelter as part of a class assignment, but I absolutely fell in love with the place and have been spending a few hours a week there ever since. The residents are so awesome and I love hanging out and talking to them.  It also reminds me just how truly blessed I am.

Spiritual Life: It’s been shaky, and I don’t think I realized just how much emotion I had tied up in my church in my hometown until I was crying in my therapist’s office this week. But I think I have finally found a church home here in the mountains and it brings me lots of peace and joy.

Health: I feel exhausted and shitty all the freaking time.  I thought I finally had it figured out (eat more, drink more water), but that doesn’t seem to be doing the trick any more, so I spent an hour at health services today getting poked and proded and letting the vampires take my blood.  Hopefully, when I return Thursday there will be some sort of answer.  Of course, it could always be related to…

Eating Disorder: I’m no poster child for recovery, but I am doing my damnedest.  Unfortunately, “my damnedest” means that I’m consistently losing weight no matter how hard I try and how much I’m sitting on my butt. Awesome. Not.

Therapy: Basically, my therapist is amazing. Like, fucking awesome. And, after four years, it’s finally gotten to the point where I can cry in front of her. Which is good, since crying is easier than eating, which is what I have to do in next week’s session.

Coping: I am tangling like a fiend. Mainly because I’m really trying to do this recovery thing right and not switch symptoms and go crazy with alcohol or a blade. It’s not perfect, but I’m trying. Plus, I’m pretty sure someone will commit me to the hospital if I need any more stitches.

Overall: Pretty awesome, though I am often overwhelmed with pangs of loneliness and wishes to be with my friends at home.

Damn. 502 words.  Whatever.


The Bionic Hand

I have a real penchant for doing things while in treatment that are likely going to get me kicked out or transferred to a state psychiatric facility.  In fact, as I was relaying this story to my therapist in yesterday’s catch up session, when I got to the whole “they said if I even scratched myself I’m kicked out” part, she said, “Yeah.  I knew you’d go there.”

So I have something of a track record.  It was almost inevitable that I would do something supremely stupid to nearly get myself kicked out.  This one was a little interesting though, as my therapist sat me down and said (pretty much verbatim), “The staff are really scared of you.”  Later, girls who were on inpatient when I was on Caution Status told me that that they thought I was really scary upon first impression.  (So nobody saw it coming that I’d be a leader on the unit and phase four going on solo passes. I like to keep people on their toes.)

But I digress.  Last time I was at CFC, my last stay on Caution was because I went outside unaccompanied and punched the cement wall (that I usually used for throwing ice) about 30 or so times with both hands.  They were nice and swollen and ripped up, but no worse for the wear.  So when I found myself in the basement staring at a support beam and super pissed at the on-call therapist, I didn’t think that one or two punches would do all that much.  I figured my hands would be bruised a bit, but it would be worth the extra time on Caution just to get those emotions out.

My favourite part of this story is that I am wearing gloves.  The staff were consistently telling me to WEAR MY GLOVES!!! so that I couldn’t self-harm.  At any rate, the on-call therapist this weekend refused to let me call my family to let them know I was on Caution and wouldn’t give me orders to play my flute, which is basically one of my biggest coping skills.  And the woman on Caution with me had orders (from the same therapist!) to play piano, so I thought it’d be a no-brainer.  It wasn’t, apparently.

I was SEETHING.  The care tech who was watching us tried to de-escalate me and get me to play games, etc. and I was having none of it.  She finally left my side and went back to the table and I continued to be really, really pissed off.  So I thought about it:  I’ll use my left hand so it doesn’t affect my writing and I’ll just do one or two good punches, just to let off some steam.


Anorexia can seriously screw up your bone density


So I punch the beam once and hear a crunch.  I figure it’s the drywall giving a bit.  I’m still pretty heated, so I punch it again.  At this point, the care tech is yelling at me and coming to restrain me (I stopped punching before I had to be restrained) and my friend (the other woman on Caution) has a sort of deer-in-headlights look.  The care tech tells me to take off my gloves (they were so effective in preventing self-harm, yeah?) so she can see my hand.  And my left hand was, uh, not right.  There was something (which was bone) sticking up, though not penetrating the flesh, and my left pinky finger was at least a centimeter lower than the rest of my fingers at rest.

Even as my hand continued to swell and turn lovely colours, I maintained that it was just dislocated and could we please just hurry this up?  I went to the ER, where they finally got me to an x-ray room to find out that my hand was broken.  Like – really, really broken.  It’s called a boxer’s break, because it’s most commonly seen in men (who get it boxing or, like me, punching a wall).  My 5th metacarpal (the hand bone below my pinky) was broken — along the long part of the bone (so it was a long break, not a clean snap).  The ER doctor shot me with some lovely local anesthetic and then proceeded to try and get the bone pieces back where they should be, more or less.

To make a long story short, I had a follow-up with a hand surgeon.  Then I had surgery — which I opted for because he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to set it without surgery and it would have a faster recovery time.  So now, my hand looks like this:


That’s a metal plate about as long as my entire bone.  And eight screws.  Seven screwed down into the plate and one screwed across (floating) to keep the pieces of bone from drifting apart.  There’s also a really lovely inch and a half scar on my left hand and I’ve been doing physical therapy for a month — and still don’t have full range of motion in my hand.

So, just in case you think your eating disorder and/or self-harm don’t hurt you, let me assure you:  they do.  Those two decided to gang up this time and man, it had some pretty impressive results.

The best part is that I might have to have another surgery to remove the plate after the bone has healed because, as the surgeon said, “it’s a big plate in a little hand” and is probably the cause of some of the mobility issues.

So now there’s a scar on my left hand to remind me of the costs of my eating disorder.

And reminding me why I never want to go down that road again.

Annnnnnnnnd….we’re back!

Has it really been 100 days since I signed my life over to the wonderful staff at Center for Change?  In some ways, it has felt like YEARS and in others, it seems as though I barely left home last week and I am returning entirely too soon.

I’ll do a real post (complete with x-rays of my bionic hand!) this weekend, but tonight I just wanted to say how thankful I am for all of your support.  You guys are awesome.  You sent e-mails and letters and mustache keychains and I appreciated all of it.  I was terrible at responding.  I’m sorry.  But I realized that I cannot be too sorry, because instead of writing you letters, I was working on assignments and taking charge of my recovery.  Consequently, I am better able to be a friend and respond to letters now and in the future.

So it evens out, really.

Oh, and did I mention I got in to freaking GRADUATE SCHOOL?!?!

100 days changes a lot of things.

Chin Up, Buttercup

This week has been miserable.  And I’ve only really been making it worse by isolating and staying away from people.  Then, of course, I freak out that everybody hates me because they don’t want to hang up with me when…uh, I’m the one who refuses to hang out?  Or who is a total Debbie Downer while doing so?  Get a grip, kid.

The flashbacks on Monday really, really shook me up.  I honestly think that has played a big role in my mood this week.  I’ve never had such intense, uncontrollable flashbacks before.  Not even in the months after the rape.  And while I did talk about it, I also found myself ruminating on the thoughts and the images and the fear I felt in those hours.  This has made me a not-so-fun person to be around.  A friend phrased it today as my being “melancholy” as of late.  I think he was kind in that assessment and didn’t want to say, “You’ve been a fucking pain in the ass to be around the past week, please cheer up.”  But I digress.

A friend of mine led a conference call tonight for Good Friday and we went through the stations of the cross.  I didn’t know how much I needed it.  I love old spiritual practices and the rhythm that liturgy provides to the year.  It has been a long time since I have done the stations of the cross, and all those times, they were self-led.  My friend read the stations to us and I just laid back and absorbed the reality of what this day commemorates. I contemplated Jesus on his walk to his death and how many times he stumbled, how he had to humble himself not only to death on a cross – but to accepting help with someone else.  I was struck by the the level of human suffering he endured – by choice – and how the walk to the hill made him even more acutely aware of the human condition and human suffering.

He’s been through it.  He’s been beaten down and stripped of his honour and dignity and died a shameful death.  And he overcame it.

He went through it so that he could walk us through it, knowing exactly the depth of that suffering. He desires to be with us, to lead us, ultimately, to our own crosses – to kill self and take on the resurrection life that we celebrate on Easter.


I have an assessment with Center for Change next week.  I’d been avoiding the treatment talk as long as possible, always blowing off the possibility when my dietitian mentioned it.  But my therapist brought it up on Monday and challenged me to talk to my parents about it.  I talked to my dad on Tuesday and he said he’d been wondering for a month whether or not to push me to go back.

So I have an assessment on Thursday with my old therapist there.  And honestly, I don’t quite know how I feel about it.  While a lot of my eating disorder is wrapped up in my desire to avoid “real life” and escape the pressures that come with it, I’m not all that thrilled at the prospect of putting my life on hold again and going back to treatment.   There will certainly be some comfort in returning to a place that I know so well (it was my home for a third of last year, after all), but it’s not as if I’m all, “Yay! Another break from life! More treatment! More friends!”

When I called to make the assessment I told them I was interested in their “inpatient short-term stabilization program.”  Basically, just three or four weeks to get you back on track so you can go back home to your program or outpatient team.  My outpatient team here is fabulous, y’all.  In six months with my therapist, we’ve nailed down three of the major underpinnings of my eating disorder.  My mood is stable for the first time in YEARS.  My dietitian pushes me as hard as she can and sometimes, I even comply.

I would love to kickstart the process and then come back home, back to work, back to friends, back to my team and finish the work here.  I’m just beginning to wonder how realistic that is.

While my mood is VASTLY improved over this time last year (as we come up on the one-year anniversary of my week long stay on a locked psych ward), the eating disorder stuff is…worse? Different? More entrenched?  I’m not really sure.  I like to imagine that I’ll be able to go back to CFC, immediately comply with my meal plan and eat everything and not have any self-harm urges and be ready to go home in less than a month.

I just don’t know how realistic that is.  I’m thinking specifically in terms of the weight I need to gain to get back to where I was when I discharged last August.  Am I really going to go, get put on a weight gain meal plan posthaste, gain for a few weeks, then come home and be totally okay with it and ready to keep working on weight gain at home?  It’s a nice idea, but…what are the chances that I come home x pounds heavier and head straight to the gym and start restricting again?

From the way my mother worded it, my parents are expecting me to go back for an extended period of time.  I was assured that they would cover the cost [again] if I agreed to “stay through to the end of the program.”  At the end of the day, I’ll agree to whatever the CFC team thinks is the best option for me.  I have no intention of going in trying to control the process or fight like hell like I did last year.

Which is, in itself, progress.  My therapist noted this as one of the reasons that this trip could be even more beneficial than last year.  I’ll go in wanting to recover and knowing some of the areas that we need to hit HARD in therapy (as opposed to spending 2 months trying to figure out how to keep me off Caution Status). Potentially, I could stay a shorter period of time (not 4 months, anyway) and derive a lot more benefit.

I get pissed at the idea of going back to treatment again. I get pissed at the thought of spending another birthday in treatment. I get pissed at the long, winding, road to recovery, when I wish God would just HEAL ME ALREADY, DAMMIT!

And part of me fears that I won’t go back to treatment at all.  I fear that I’ll have my assessment on Thursday and the team out there will think that I am not “sick enough” to need inpatient or residential. I mean, my weight’s not THAT low, my restricting isn’t THAT bad, my exercise is far better than it was, and I’m not really a safety risk to myself.  I fear that I’ll be told that I should be able to do this outpatient and that I just need to pull myself up by my bootstraps.

Three totally different scenarios: being told I’m not sick enough, being told I could just stay for a few weeks, being told I need to stay long-term again.  They’re all terrifying, honestly.  And while my eating disorder would love for one of the first two to come to fruition, the part of me that wants so desperately to recover knows that my best shot is another long-term stay. A long enough stay to completely weight restore and then settle into that body while dealing with the shit in my past.

It is scary for me to admit that I want to go back to CFC for an extended period of time.  I’m not sure if it makes me feel “weak,” or “attention-seeking,” or “avoidant,” or what.  But I DO want it.  I want this disease out of my life for good.

Assessment is on Thursday.

I could be back in treatment in a month.

Dinner Time? Again?!

It’s not like I should be surprised by dinner. It does, after all, occur every day. But some days it sort of sneaks up on me. I will be doing what I do and all of a sudden it’s six, or seven, or eight o’clock at night and I have to consider some sort of meal.

Meals have been difficult lately. Not in the sense that…no, scratch that. They’ve been difficult in every sense.  I have very little appetite, so nothing sounds appealing.  I am too tired (and often depressed) to put together a full meal that actually looks like a meal.  Some meals lately have been bizarre mish-mashes of what I’ve got in the snack box.  And, of course, my eating disorder is screaming at me that a meal is completely unnecessary, why not just a nice salad (hold the dressing and everything else) or a piece of fruit?

I haven’t updated in weeks, mainly because there’s nothing to say.  I haven’t even really been trying to recover for the past two weeks.  I’ve just been coasting.  Oh, not really hungry and don’t want to eat that snack?  Eh.  Why bother fighting it, just go with the eating disorder.

Furthermore, when I do think of things to post, I quickly reconsider when I take into account my readership.  I don’t want to be triggering to anyone, so hearing about how I’m engaging in x or y behaviour or have lost z pounds is not helpful to any of us.  It triggers those who are vulnerable, and it allows me to bitch and whine without actually doing anything about it.  It allows it to appear as if I’m concerned about these behaviours when, in fact, if I were actually concerned, I’d be doing something about it.

Treatment is always a possibility.  One of my friends was shocked to hear that my therapist didn’t insist on sending me to residential again after another week of weight loss.  My dietitian said I need to start fighting or I’ll be back at CFC in the near future.

Let’s be clear:  I like treatment.  It’s easy.  I thrive there (well, after a few stays on Caution, anyway).  I don’t have to deal with real life.  And while I’m dealing with tough stuff in therapy, my therapist in Utah never pushed me the way my therapist at home does.

My therapist here at home is also very good at reminding me the role God has to play if I ever expect to be fully recovered.  Do I believe that a full recovery is possible without God?  Sure.  But at my core, I am a spiritual being and I am desperate for Jesus and trying to ignore that while recovering from my eating disorder is a joke.  I feel like shit and hate myself and hate walking through shame and I’ve got the cushiest landing anybody could ever ask for in Christ and I ignore it.  I refuse to talk to Him about it, refuse to take Him up on His offer to walk with me and comfort me.

What kind of idiot must I be?

But that kind of self-defeating thought isn’t helpful either.

My therapist held a mirror up to me this week (not literally — God let us never do that sort of body work please!) and basically repeated back all the bullshit I’ve been telling her for a month.  That I’m fine.  That my eating disorder is not that bad.  That my set point is huge and fat.  That it is totally okay to keep losing weight.  That I don’t need to work on my recovery, I just need to work on those parts of my life that I’m unhappy with.  Hearing her say all that, play devil’s advocate, pissed me off, quite frankly.  And when I told her how frustrated I was, she intimated just how frustrated and angry she was.

All this to say, I’m fighting again.  I’m sitting on my ass instead of going to the gym.  I’m drinking a supplement (sometimes two) every day.  I’m cooking food and eating it, even though sometimes it feels like I’m choking as I try to get it down.

And I’m wrestling it out with God.  Telling Him how pissed I am.  Telling Him how much I need Him.  Coming to Him broken and hurting and hoping He’ll show up.