Bedrest Blues

Day one of bedrest after night one of bedrest and it’s a nightmare. They won’t let me out, not even to use the computer or to watch the Super Bowl. Even though I don’t really care which team wins; as far as I’m concerned, both Peyton Manning and Cam Newton are overpaid narcissistic assholes, but I’d rather watch a couple of arrogant meatheads duke it out with their teams for the Lombardi than the sun duke it out with my blinds. Not to mention all the newest ads with cute puppies and Doritos and baby Clydesdales and hopefully lots of humor interspersing men in tight pants crashing into each other with the hopes of carrying an inflated pigskin to victory. I’ll advocate for myself as much as possible though. It’s just because my vitals were a little wonky. But I feel fine. It’s just that there are days when this disorder makes it feel like it’s me against the world. And I have nothing to protect or defend myself against the barrage of weapons and words the world has to rip me apart with and wage it’s mental, physical, and emotional war against me with (except perhaps some awesome consonance and alliteration). Hey, what else could you expect from an English Major? But right now it feels like me against everything else, which makes the fight seem next to impossible. I’m still not sure where the right place for me to be is. This place puts too much control in the hands of my eating disorder, and I feel like I need someone to take over my story for me for a while. Not like a pseudonym, but a biographer.

Not only do I have to fight the anorexia, but I also have to fight the trifecta completing anxiety and depression. Anorexia turns food into numbers with glaring red eyes shouting hateful things at you. You don’t see the way your eyes look haunted or your spine juts out unnaturally. You don’t see your matchstick arms and fragile, bird like bones, or how your skin doesnt fit your face anymore when you smile. 

You just see bit good enough. And the anxiety and the depression are so intertwined it’s achingly painful. ADA, if you want an acronym. A Devastating Amalgamation. My anxiety and my depression both cause me to completely shut down, mentally, emotionally, and physically, which leaves space for the eating disorder to fly right in. All three have the same result, though; they render me a broken, empty shell.

Thats why every one of my supporters is invaluable, and why every ounce of encouragement is so wonderfully helpful. Because that’s what helps fill the void when days loom seemingly impossible in front of me. Days I can’t conquer on me own. You’re all angels to me, even if you don’t have wings. And I could never, can never, and will never be able to thank you all enough for all you do for me. Thank you anyways, and much, much love 💕

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