I Feel Like a Robot

Like a mindless robot that just comes out to sit at a table three times a day, shovels a ton of food into her mouth, feels terrible about it both physically and mentally afterwards for an hour, and then returns to her room until the next meal gong sounds.

I’m almost feeling emotionless at this point. The only thing motivating me to keep eating is the promise of maybe going home on Monday. And if that’s taken away from me, I don’t know what I’m going to do. This is a dangerous position to be in. I can feel a massive emotional break coming soon and I’m worried about when it’s going to hit. There’s only so long I can go without showing how much this is taking out of me. Every little crumb, every bite, every swallow, is like a stab in the heart. My mind starts rushing with numbers, attempting to calculate the incalculable, and then eventually it shortcircuits and I’m just numbly consuming whatever it is that’s been placed in front of me. Sometimes it’s a desperate race to finish in the half an hour time span. This is when my brain starts to run again as it disjointedly tries to reconcile the fact that I can’t use my behaviors or give in to my OCD if I don’t want to be penalized. I want to use all the utensils and line them up afterwards. I want to compile everything as neatly and compactly as possible. I want to finish segments of the meal in five minute increments. I want to eat certain components in certain orders.

And after a time, all of this noise… It just fades away. It’s silent in my head, save for the nauseating sound of chewing, until after the meal is complete.

Today’s lunch was a massive salad with chicken and stale toast pieces for croutons with a ton of Italian dressing, paired with peaches and a staggeringly large sandwich on gluten free bread that could barely stand up to the amount of tuna salad and lettuce that they attempted to be crammed inside. In addition, they added on soymilk and water so that I feel like I’m literally sloshing if I move even the most infinitesimal bit. 

It’s horrifying to think about. It’s all I can do right now to keep my mind from envisioning sandwich and salad sized distensions protruding from my stomach as large fatty deposits. I know this is my disorder, but it feels so concrete and real. Not unlike how the metaphorical rock I just consumed feels sitting inside my stomach right now.

All I want is to restrict. To exercise. To poke and prod at myself, to sadistically torture myself with words and empty promises, to reassure myself I’m just as hideous as I envision. It’s the most logically illogical thing ever. And I can’t do it. All I’m allowed is to be my robotic self as I get up from my hour of dehumanizing chair quarantine, walk back to my room with the heart monitor bleeping to the rhythm of “You’re tachycardic”  ringing in my ears, and crawl back into my alarmed bed to feel miserable until dinner.

This is no way to live. I’m slowly being crushed under the weight of meals, daily meetings with a scale and vitals, hospital beds and johnnys, and the endless pounds I feel like I’m gaining.

This ended up going on quite a tangent. And it’s a lot longer than I anticipated. But I think I needed to write all of this.

My poor roommate is scheduled to have her appointment and operations at some point this early afternoon. I’m hoping it’ll be while I’m back in the room, both because that’s the soonest it can be for her benefit, and because I can’t deal with how sick it’s making me feel to hear about her condition on top of how sick what I’m doing already makes me feel.

Simultaneously too many and not enough feelings. That’s the TLDR summary of this. That, and that if I’m not discharged pretty damn soon, I’m going to lose my freaking mind all over the place. And it’ll be legendary, but not in the Barney Stinson sort of sense.


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