I do not believe I am currently at the stage to successfully recover.
I do not believe I have the ability to recover for a long, long time.
Treatment has been largely inefficient so far. I’ve felt dehumanized to the point that it’s demoralizing to even think about. The idea of taking away creature comforts or the outside world as penalty for not consuming enough rankles. The concept that removing things that make me happy, promising to restore them given that I eat a certain amount, is baffling. If you make me sad, depressed, and anxious, what chance do I stand of overcoming those demons in order to somehow magically eat and regain a normal life?
A normal life.
How long it’s been since I’ve had one of those things. In fact, this Friday will mark 11 straight weeks in some form of treatment or another. 77 days may not sound like a lot in comparison to 365. But when you throw in the hell that it’s been, and realize that’s actually roughly 21% of an entire year of my life spent trying to conquer what feels insurmountable, the weight of it all begins to hit you.
I’m trying. I’m always trying. Never doubt that. Even if I outright refuse, know that I do that with full knowledge of the repercussions it holds, and some faint logical recognition that I could in fact choose to comply. But my anorexia is loud and strong. Stronger than I am right now.
Stronger, even, than I and an entire team of support backing me. You all are amazing. You brighten my every day. But it’s like brief moments of sunshine during an ominous, cloudy, rainy day. Every so often the light manages to make itself known, albeit very weakly, but then it’s obscured entirely. My depression, anxiety, and OCD, combined with the weight (pun sarcastically intended) of my eating disorder, make every day, every hour, every second a battle of life or death. Literally.
I know I could die.
That’s terrifying. Perhaps more terrifying is the fact that honestly, that usually is not enough to frighten me into trying to heal myself.
Like I said, my anorexia is strong. It has its cold, bony hands gripped around my throat and it’s shaking me like a dog. Sometimes I get a brief moment of peace. A visit with a friend or family member. Some surprise flowers. An actual hunger cue. A good night’s sleep.
Seldom do these occur. It feels like an omnipresent darkness is closing in on my field of vision, and the light at the end of the tunnel is fading.
I still retain hope. Just not very much right now.
This is hard to admit, hard to write, and I imagine, a million times more difficult to read and comprehend. But it’s honest, and I value honesty more than most things in this world.
Tomorrow I will be headed to Klarman at some ridiculously early hour in the morning via ambulance. I will give it a fair chance. It’s a program I haven’t experienced before. With that comes the fear of the unknown, which will capitalize on my already fragile mental state. I don’t see it going well given how much I am struggling currently. Though as promised, I will give it a fair and fighting chance.
That’s the truth.