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.
