The Day that Wouldn’t End

As I laid on my bed wrapped up in my flowery bedspread, my mind began to go over yesterday’s events. The endless arguing, the hateful words, the damn reading on the doctor’s scale, the visit with my psychiatrist . . . all of these recent experiences kept replaying in my mind’s eye like an endless horror film.  Because of the negative nature of yesterday’s occurrences, I wondered if I should even compose a blog post on them. Not too long ago, I had promised all of you that I would do everything I could to make this blog a refuge for ED recovery instead of a virtual hell where I would publish posts laced with pessimism.  But then I realized that it wouldn’t be fair to you if I hid something that was happening in my life.   Many of you that are taking the time to read this post today, have been following my blog since its infancy.  You have been with me in times of fear, sorrow, hope, and joy. For goodness sake, you DESERVE to know what is going on and I think it is ok for me to share how I am feeling because honestly, you guys are the only true support I have.

When I awoke at 3:30am yesturday morning (no that isn’t a typo . . . I really haven’t been sleeping well), I had a terrible knot in my stomach. Today was the day I would have to see my psychiatrist and step on his wretched scale. I knew my weight had dropped since that last time I had seen him and obviously his scale would reflect that.  I also fully realized that once my father saw the number of pounds my body contained, my house would turn into a Nazi encampment. I would be stripped of my freedoms, food would no longer be under my control, and my parents would stalk me  like a hungry lion stalks its kill.

When 2 o’clock came around, I packed up my school belongings, signed out at the school office, and walked on over to my father’s car as if I was walking to the gallows.  As I exited my brick high school, I noticed that the blue afternoon sky had been consumed by a sea of ugly gray clouds and the air had become bitterly cold – so cold in fact, I could feel it in my bones. I took this harsh winter-like weather as an sign of the frightening experience that was yet to come.

Once my father and I made it to the psychiatric clinic, my body was taken over by anxiety. My heart was pounding like a base drum beneath the thin, snow-color skin of my chest. My icy hands became saturated with perspiration and my leg began to uncontrollable bounce up and down. 20 minutes after my scheduled appointment time, Dr. K (my psychiatrist) opened the door to the corridor that lead to the atrociously-decorated offices of  the many shrinks that work in the clinic.  At the end of narrow corridor was the electronic scale that would determine my fate. As calmly as I could, I kicked off my black flats and removed my hot pink winter jacket. Quickly, I stepped on the scale and after a second or two a number popped up. I had lost one pound and that was one pound too many.

Of course I was interrogated during the appointment. I was asked by Dr. K all the typical ED questions one could imagine. Are you restricting? Are you stressed? Do you think you are fat? I responded to all those questions with a strong “no”.  Though I was certainly telling the truth by denying his accusations, I knew Dr. K didn’t believe me at all and I also knew my father didn’t give a shit about what I was saying either.

Throughout the rest of the day, my father constantly ridiculed me, especially when I didn’t complete my dinner. I tried to tell him that I wasn’t able to and that I felt too ill, but he had already had his mind set that I had relapsed.

Now I just don’t know where to go from here because even when I tell the truth, all my parents and doctors hear are lies.


3 thoughts on “The Day that Wouldn’t End

  1. I feel the exact same way about sharing the reality of recovery. I was hesitant to share the low points in my recovery as well because I did not want to expose my readers to negativity, but I realize now that by sharing my experiences with relapse and the low points in recovery i am helping other people understand that recovery is so much more difficult than anyone can understand unless they have experienced it first-hand. Here’s the link to the post that I wrote about this if you’re interested in reading 🙂

  2. Keep on fighting and try to always tell the truth. That’s the only way they can help you. I know how hard it’s is but we’re going to recover fully, right?

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