Hell. That’s the only word that can possibly describe how yesterday went.
The misery began early in the morning, before the sun even had a chance to rise. I was sitting on a wooden barstool in my grandma’s pristine kitchen, methodically spooning the Ensure I drink every morning, when I heard the high-pitched squeak of an unoiled door open upstairs. Just seconds later I could my ears picked up the sound of feet pounding as someone rush down the stairs and towards the kitchen. I could feel my heart begin to beat fast, my legs begin to bounce, and my palms get sweaty. I knew who was coming and I knew that that person would be infuriated that I was up so early.
I watched as the person’s silhouette morphed into the body of a woman as the person made there way into the light of the kitchen. It was just who I feared was coming. . .
It was my mom.
Her eyes had bags under them and it looked like it was a burdensome task just for her to keep them open. But despite the fact that she looked so exhausted, I could see the anger, frustration, and worry painted all over her face. I knew why she was so upset though. You see, apparently that night my mom had found something in my suitcase. . ..something I was trying so hard to hide. What she uncovered was a bright yellow, 5 pound kettle ball. For my mom, that was a sure sign that my mind had yet again been completely consumed by my eating disorder. What my mom didn’t know was that I had never used the kettle ball. That piece of exercise equipment was more like a security blanket for me. If I ever needed to exercise, I knew it would be right there for me to use. Now though, I was paying the price for the risk of taking the forbidden “security blanket” with me.
As my perturbed mother stood by me that morning, I could feel guilt and shame overcome my body. “Why the hell did I bring the damn kettleball” I kept thinking. “Why!” My mom commanded me to go back to room I slept in that very instant and sleep. After a battle of hateful words, I begrudgingly made my way up the stairs and into the stuffy bedroom I was staying in. I attempted to get back to sleep, but I couldn’t. Today was the day we were driving back to my home Wisconsin (approximately 8 hours away) and I was filled with anxiety about the trip. The trip was hard enough when people weren’t upset. How could I possibly be in a cramped car for such an extended period of time with worried parents? That was just it, I couldn’t.
For each and every seemingly endless hour of the trip, my mom acted as if I didn’t exist. Bu instead of screaming at me, she took out her rage on my poor dad, yelling at him cruelly and relentlessly. My dad, a man who hardly ever cries, had tears running down his eyes as my mom did everything in her power to ensure he knew how upset she was. Even after we finally arrived home, my mom never ceased fighting. I can’t even begin to explain in words how shamed I was of myself to cause all this hostile behavior. I just wanted to fix it, but there is only one way to try to repair all the damage I’ve done and it’s not easy. I am going to have to prove to my parents that I want (and will) recover. I will have to use every bit of my dwindling energy to tackle the thoughts my ED has cemented into my mind, because if I don’t my life isn’t going to get any better. It’s just going to keep going downhill and I know eventually I may get to the point where climbing back up again isn’t going to be a possibility.