One of my friends from treatment is relapsing hard and it’s tearing me apart for a couple of reasons.
I’m a little sad and disappointed because this girl is still young and has time to turn things around before any more damage is done to her body. I’m frustrated, because she’s been in treatment numerous times before yet is still struggling, and I’m angry, because she’s engaging in the old behaviors and I’m not.
Yeah, part of me is actually jealous. Jealous of a friend who’s seriously ill and needs help. There are still times where I yearn for the passivity of being on autopilot while my eating disorder took the wheel, times when I’m so tired of working for recovery every day and all I want is to throw a fucking tantrum in the middle of the grocery store. I want to fold inside myself and listen to my breathing, each exhale releasing a little bit more weight from my body.
I want, I want, I want.. until I remember what it’s really like, until I get flashbacks of treatment, of being in that sterile hospital, and I remember the complete and total surrender of control, of being told what and when to eat, when to go to the bathroom, when to sleep, how to sit and not to fidget and no standing up because that burns more calories, so sit, sit down, and wait for hours in the boring day room between group therapies and rounds with The Great Oz herself, the director of the program, where you’re judged and evaluated and reprimanded for not eating the leftover sauce on your plate, and then sent back to the day room again, where you look out the window and touch the glass and hope that today, today maybe you’ll be allowed to go outside because it’s been five days since you last felt fresh air on your skin, and when they call meal time you cringe, and one of the mood disorder patients began choking on her lunch and turned blue so you used the confusion to hide some food, and your surroundings are so fucking crazy and surreal that it’s suddenly become normal and you don’t even blink when another patient has an outburst, you’re no longer startled when the alarm goes off for the schizophrenia unit and all the doctors start stampeding to the doors, the doors that are locked and watched by a closed circuit camera, so there’s no escaping – not this unit, not this building, not yourself – and only then do you feel truly and utterly powerless.
I don’t want to be that powerless again. I don’t want to lose control of myself so badly that I need to be admitted to a psychiatric ward in order to get it back.
So – I fight. Whether it’s fighting against relapse or my own self-destructive thoughts, I’m still on the front lines, fighting for some self-control, fighting for my life. I can only hope that my sisters (and brothers) will stand strong and do the same.. <3