I kept on repeating, “Nobody gives a shit, nobody gives a shit, nobody gives a shit….”
Or at least that’s what I told myself last night.
Sometimes I say, “Die, die, die!”
Not that it works, or hasn’t yet.
Last night I got into this horrible argument with my brother Ned. And then I did this profoundly liberating thing that has jump-started me like you would not believe: I cut him out of my life.
Now I didn’t expect that I’d do that. No way. I didn’t have it planned out that way. I didn’t do it in a fit of anger or anything like that. It was the logical thing to do, that’s all, following this horrible argument.
It was a matter of a click of the mouse, you see. I have Google Voice, so it was easy. Or not so easy due to a glitch in GV. But I went over to the forums figured out how to get it done. Now, when Ned calls, he is automatically sent to voicemail. No, not spammed, just sent to voicemail.
I suppose if he keeps calling and continues to get voicemail, he’ll conclude that I’m hospitalized. I guess at that point I’ll e-mail him and tell him I’m not. And a few other things.
I am tired of being told I am not real writer because I do not submit my writings to The New Yorker. I am tired of being told I am wrong no matter what I say. I am tired of being told that no matter what I do, it’s not good enough. He’s an asshole. I’m glad I’m not his kid and I’m glad I’m not his student and I’m glad I’m not his wife and I’m glad I’m not his friend.
I liked it that he called now and then. That was nice of him. But only to put me down again and again. He never once read This Hunger Is Secret. He only looked at the cover and commented on it. He never bought a copy or the e-book or paperback and when he came here and looked at a copy of the paperback he did not open it and read anything inside. Isn’t that weird? Like he only cared about the cosmetics of the book. Then he shoved it back at me, uninterested.
Well, asshole, you are out of my life.
I didn’t feel really terrific until this morning. I woke up and then suddenly it felt like my body was breathing a gigantic sigh of relief. Like suddenly, there was this letting go, a release of something that had been pent-up. It felt incredible.
(As we speak, there is huge shouting and arguing in my hallway. Typical day here.)
I have not binged since Saturday. I don’t know why or how I have managed to stop but I am grateful for it. Well, I do have ideas. There are things I have done. I will talk about some of the things in another entry. But one of the things is letting him go.
Getting rid of people, activities, and substances that are no good for you is essential.
I started writing a blog entry about this but I had a huge technical problem in my apartment and got interrupted with my entry, lost track of what I was saying, and so I aborted the entry. What happened was that my toilet got a leak in the back of it and I had to call the maintenance guy over here. My bathroom floor is all soggy.
What I was saying was this:
If a person, activity, or substance causes you to binge, cut it out of your life if possible.
I don’t really have an overeating problem. I go on full binges. There is a marked difference, and I have a hard time relating to people who overeat and do not have a binge eating problem.
Do you want to know what this means? Binge eating, for me, is not anything like casual eating or “nibbling.” It is never done with a partner (I saw a You-Tube where someone who was bulimic talked about binge eating with a friend). Sometimes, depending on how soft or crunchy the food is, I shove it into me and and barely chew it. Huge chunks get swallowed whole. It’s extremely disgusting. I’ve seen my own dog do this.
Anyway, I have not done any of that since Saturday. I am grateful. Today I feel wicked decent.
Guess what? I am even wearing jeans, not those pajama bottoms I wore for days on end. It’s a good thing I didn’t feel too self-conscious about my weight and dared to have that maintenance guy in here, because if the toilet had leaked last week, I would have been scared to have anyone in here. The tank was leaking, not the toilet bowl itself, so no, not that gross, but the floor would have been like a wicked bad swamp.
My cell phone broke Monday night, my good one, but it’s one I was using less often than the free “Welfare” one. I decided that compared to all the other shit in my life, it’s not that big a deal. The warranty expired ages ago. It’s not one of those contract phones. I’m a cheap-o. I got another off of ebay for $30 last night. I did this fun Internet shopping to distract myself from my pissed-off thoughts about my brother.
It was a really healthy way to cope with the issue. Now I’m going to have a new phone. I mean, I could have thrown the broken phone across the room. That would have been just plain dumb, and would have accomplished nothing. Ripping up a phone book would have done nothing but make a mess and destroy a phone book, and holding onto a frozen orange would have done nothing but waste an orange and make my hands extremely uncomfortable, and oranges are expensive. I did some intelligent comparison shopping, read the reviews carefully, and made a decision.
Well, asshole, you are out of my life.
They just called, saying, “We recommend that you keep doing what you are doing in your local area….”
I said, “You realize I have no therapist here. I cannot find a therapist. My insurance does not cover nutrition counseling. I have no friends and my family has pretty much abandoned me.”
I should have added, “If I keep doing what I am doing here in the local area, it will kill me,” but I didn’t.
What I really wanted to say, but didn’t, was, “I’ll make sure you are sent an invitation to my funeral.”
What she said was, “We don’t really know what we can do for you.”
Well, fine. I ended the conversation rather quickly.
I don’t really want a hospital, anyway.
Here’s the dilemma. I don’t want to go to a weight-gaining factory like Walden Behavioral Care’s Alcott Unit. I was talking to someone about this today. Alcott’s interest is in stuffing the patients with anything they can, junk food snacks included, to fatten them up according to insurance companies’ demands. If patients aren’t gaining fast enough, never mind the reasons, they stick a tube in the patient. It’s all about numbers. That’s why, when the doctor comes to see you, they’ve looked at one thing in your chart: the weight that you were that morning, and nothing else, not your feelings, nothing. Because they have to answer to insurance. Do I want a hospital like this one? NO!
I was talking today with someone about hospitalization. She said just to keep me alive, because I am so suicidal. She meant in a psych unit. I told her the places around here are so bad that they will make me worse. They do not provide “treatment.” They only lock you up. The staff are bossy and uncaring and disrespectful. It is especially bad since I am on care/caid so I am treated like a “Welfare case,” looked down upon even though I have more college education than just about any of the staff (doctors included). So I said I would rather stay home and I am better off not being separated from Puzzle. That’s the bottom line.
Another bottom line is that one reason I feel suicidal, probably the main one, is that I have gained so much weight. Now if I can lose this weight, I won’t feel suicidal anymore. If I can stop binge eating, I will feel damned good.
It really sucks that a lot of times, I tell people stuff and they don’t take me seriously or they don’t believe me. Like when I told my shrink that I gained 28-1/2 pounds in four days. She shrugged it off. Well, the person I spoke with today (never mind who it was) said my shrink should have taken it seriously and should have believed me and ordered some medical tests at least. I also told my CBFS worker and she said it was not possible to gain this much weight, however, she knows nothing about eating disorders. I don’t know why they gave me this worker who does not know about ED. It’s hard talking to her. I felt like she thought I was exaggerating or lying. This pisses me off.
My legs are no longer blue and discolored from skin stretching, but I had to walk a bit today and it was uncomfortable for my feet, because they are like little balloons. Sometimes, my skin has a snapping feeling to it, and I know it is cracking due to extreme stretching from the weight gain.
Now do you believe me?
All I can think about is losing the weight I gained. It is on my mind constantly. If I can do this, I won’t kill myself, and I will feel so much better. I need to lose an awful lot of weight. These ED hospitals, if I go to them, they will make me stay at this weight. I consider right now that I am living in a nightmare because of the weight I gained.
I was so glad the weather was cool today. I had to be around people today and I mentioned that I was glad about the weather. They were so clueless. I was glad about this weather because then I could cover myself with my down coat and no one could see how fat I have become. It’s not the same coat that I wore last year. I hate that one so much, too many bad memories. It’s a different one.
The only pants I wear now are pajama bottoms. These are a plain brown pair I kinda stole from a hospital. They are long and very wide on me so they cover my very large ankles so you can’t see the severe edema. You can’t see that I have fat legs, and my coat covers most of my legs anyway. It is a down coat and even if the wind blows, you don’t see how fat my thighs are due to the thickness of the coat. My raincoat is good this way, too, because it does not show my fat thighs, but I wish it were not bright yellow, such a conspicuous obnoxious color.
I’m surprised I’m alive, actually. I find it all rather amusing.
They told me I should “seek treatment locally”….Well, there ain’t no treatment I can find here. They meant stabilization for depression, and they didn’t say, but for suicidality as well. She said to go to an ER, and I said no way was I going to an ER because they know nothing about ED’s at the ER’s here. I said I could not even find a therapist here on public insurance, but that I was going to have to wait until July. I did also say that Mass General has already refused to give me a therapist, flat out refused even though I practically begged them. So Dr. P is really going to have to pull some strings to get me one. I told the lady in Wisconsin that I am going to have to wait till July to get a therapist, if I get one at all, and that I know many other people with ED’s on public insurance that can’t find therapists here in the Medical Hub of the Universe.
I plan to go see my state representative or someone and talk to them about this. Something has to be done. Some magic or something. This is like a fucking sin. Our state rep has office hours, today, actually, and also next Monday, too. Maybe next Monday would be better. I swear I’m going to go and have something prepared and I’m going to speak up about the lack of care for people with ED, here in the Land of Plenty.
This is a fucking sin. If nothing else is, this is. And I don’t even believe in sin.
As you may recall, up to mid-April or so, I was doing extremely well. But you may be wondering what the heck happened. Or maybe you don’t even give a shit but I am going to tell you anyway.
I think to sum it up, there were external things that stressed me out to the extreme, and basically I snapped. By external, I mean these are not things that were happening to me mentally or physically, these were things that happened in my environment, my surroundings. Some I could take action on and some I could not. I don’t know if I should present these to you in order of appearance or as they occur to me. I guess the latter.
First of all, I was doing fantastic until the 13th. Now this was the night of the church talent show, a huge event at our church. I was a little scared at the time cuz some binge eating had returned, I think, perhaps a week previously. I think there was culprit food that I needed to eliminate from my diet that I was not aware of and I am now aware of this food and I do not eat it. The binge eating was only occasional and I was not overly concerned because I figured I would figure out what the culprit food was sooner or later. So the night of the 13th, the night of the talent show, I was all prepared with my reading, and going off to church in a very good space. I had not gained any weight from the binge eating because it was only occasional. I figured the binge eating would go away as soon as I figured things out.
The talent show went well, except Puzzle’s manners were really, really bad. There is another service dog that comes to church, and every time that this service dog is there, Puzzle cannot contain herself, and she makes little yipping sounds. It’s annoying to everyone. Not that I blame them. I can’t get her to shut up no matter what I do. If the other dog is not there, Puzzle sleeps through the whole service. I do agree the the little yipping sounds are totally inappropriate. But no matter what I do, I can’t get her to stop. In other places, like restaurants, I have never had a problem with her yipping or making noise of any kind. It’s only at church and it’s only when this other dog is there. I wish I knew when this lady was going to not show up, and show up when she is not showing up. But more on this in a minute.
So I pulled off my little reading brilliantly. It was a comedy act and it went off great. I got a million laughs and I felt good about it. It wasn’t just silly stuff, it had deeper meaning as well. You know, I’m proud to be a writer. One line I said was, “See you in church tomorrow.” However, I have not shown up for church since. I will tell you why.
I was walking out, just about to leave with Puzzle. Now there’s this lady there that I have promised myself a million zillion times I will never speak to. She is or was my friend but I cannot speak to her because she is demeaning and insulting to me, she puts me down every chance she gets. She thinks she owns “recovery” just like folks in Alcoholics Anonymous think AA is the one and only way and no other ways are okay. Well, in a very insulting manner, she invited me to some “retreat,” saying it was a very hard program, and then she looked me up and down (seeing how skinny I was, of course) and said, “Well, you probably can’t handle it, it’s too hard for you,” and said, “It’s the place I found MY RECOVERY,” like hell, like she owns “recovery.” Then she said, “You have to eat there, you know, and you probably couldn’t handle that,” (again, drawing conclusions based on my weight). Actually. at the time, I was doing very well with food. I think it was she that could not handle this retreat and would find it too hard for her. Then she said, “I’ve found a therapist now and am doing therapy.” I told her I am happy to be therapist-free and found so many of them to be abusers. She said, “Well, the therapy was probably too hard for you to handle.” Meanwhile, sometime during this bullshit conversation, my minister walked by and I hope he heard some of these horrible insults.
Oh, such bullshit. Too hard to handle? The therapists I saw didn’t know anything about ED. The last one (right before the bogus one) kept repeating back to me everything I said to her and any reasonable conversation with her was like pulling teeth. I’d finally tell her something I thought was reasonably important, something I thought she should pay attention to, and guess what? She’d abruptly change the subject and talk about “goals,” or some bullshit like that. I’d leave and tell myself it was impossible to tell her anything relevant at all. I never told her anything about my ED, she pretty much didn’t care, and if I had, I’m sure she would have changed the subject or repeated back to me what I was saying, kinda like a robot or something. I’d leave and say to myself, “Wow, I’ve wasted an incredible amount of time and the commute home is a drag. I even hate the fucking waiting room here.” Where the hell was this lady trained? Too hard to handle? I do not like conversing with someone with poor conversation skills. To that extent, yeah, bad therapy is not easy to handle.
So after hearing all these horrible insults from this lady at church, meanwhile I’m just about to leave, I felt terrible, She had asked me to contact her about this so-called “retreat,” and no way do I want contact with this lady ever, ever again. In fact, I do not want to be in church if she is going to be there, and she shows up just about every time. I fear that she will approach me again. I have told my minister about her insults. At first, he didn’t react too much, and said that people are flawed and that I should try to let it go.
It has of course been over a month and I have not let it go. I will not go to church because she is there. I want to ask my minister if he happens to know if she has taken sick and is going to be out for an extended period, and then maybe I can show up and feel safe being there.
Now here’s another interesting part: She’s the owner of the other service dog. Interesting, eh?
So meanwhile, I have been told that Puzzle is no longer allowed in church. This is legal. Churches can say no to service animals. But they say okay to the bitch’s service animal and I happen to know they have said no to someone else’s service dog and she got pissed off, and rarely shows up at church anymore…I think she used to be active in the church and now she hardly ever shows up because her dog was denied and the bitch’s dog is allowed.
I told my minister that it’s all irrelevant. The bitch is at church (I don’t call her that in front of him) and theref9re, I will not show up. He thinks this is sad and that I should let it go and put it behind me.
Well, of course I should. But I can’t. My mind does not work that way.
I will tell you something about forgiveness. When I forgive, I don’t feel better. I feel worse. I feel like crap. When someone does something shitty to me and I “let it go,” I beat myself up for “letting it go” and wish I hadn’t. When I go up to someone to try to make amends, they act all asshole to me and make me feel like a piece of shit. They put me down and make me feel like a mental case and make it like it was all my fault to begin with, and tell me what an asshole I am. I go home and cry and wish I never made amends with this person. There are no hugs and the person often does not apologize. They say, “I’m sorry you feel bad,” which is obviously not an apology for their actions or taking any kind of responsibility for what they did, but just another put-down. I beat myself up for approaching this person and wish I never did it. I feel like I gave them permission to shit on me again, and often, they do, or they go shit on other people.
Summer services are coming up. I know the bitch does not tend to go to these summer services so maybe I will go to them. I will find out if she plans to go and if she isn’t, I might go. And I will bring Puzzle. Really, I don’t feel okay going without Puzzle.
And of course, I am not leaving the house and being seen in public, not even walking down the hall until I can lose the massive amount of weight I have gained, but I will get to that in a minute. I am in hiding until I can drop X pounds at least. Like I said, I’ll get to this.
So, those incredible number of rapid-fire insults on the night of the 13th of April that suddenly were hurled at me, this quite unexpectedly, this was an awful blow to me. It was so hurtful and unnecessary. I knew that this was a person I had promise myself I would NEVER ever speak to, because I know she is an insult expert, a very demeaning, controlling person. She loves to run other people’s lives if she gets the chance. I did tell my minister right after it happened. I went to bed and just didn’t get out. I don’t know what happened after that.
I guess my CBFS worker came the following Monday and concluded that I was doing great and didn’t need to see me anymore, that she was transferring me to a “case manager” who would see me or call me like once a month. This CBFS worker knows nothing about eating disorders, I just humor the girl, who is very nice but really the least they could have done was sent someone with some expertise. She even left about 25 minutes early, concluding that I was doing great and didn’t need her. She seemed very bored with me. I haven’t seen her since. I have been so sick. I have lied to her, put her off, told her I had appointments, and it’s kind of her fault cuz she said she’d call back and she just didn’t bother, like once she said she’d call back in 20 minutes and didn’t bother. I think like most of them, she doesn’t really give a shit about her job. No way do I want anyone to see me fat like this. Another time, the house was such a mess that I wanted no one in here, and I was too sick to clean up the mess. Today seems to be Monday, guess I need to decide what to do when she calls, cuz I know she’ll call. I’m too fat to be seen so I’ve gotta make up some excuse. Maybe when she comes, I can be wearing footie pajamas and say I’m sick or something. That’ll cover up how fat my legs are. These PJ’s are really loose and they cover up a fat stomach really well. That plus she won’t see how swollen my feet are. But then what? What will I tell her? Lie? I dunno. She knows zilch ab0ut ED, it’s like talking first grade to her. I can tell her the swelling in my face is an allergic reaction. I mean, it’s pointless to tell her anything cuz she won’t understand. Oh, and every time she comes, she wants to use my bathroom. It think that’s rude. So the toilet has to be clean. I mean spotless, no evidence of laxative abuse, if you get my drift. The Housing Authority has given me the grossest toilet seat imaginable but I put up with it and I don’t understand how anyone can stand using it.
So that was the 15th, the day of the Marathon, and meanwhile, that bombing occurred while my CBFS worker was here, and of course I found out, not via TV, cuz I don’t have one, but via the Internet. I eventually followed the thing and made sure a few folks were okay. Then the next day I went running at the gym and that felt really good. I ran 5k and I ran really well. Afterward, I wrote about it in here. But still, I felt shitty about the bitch that insulted me at church and I felt lousy that I could not go to church anymore.
I guess a couple of days later, I told myself, “Fuck it, I’m going to get down to 75 pounds. Screw the planet. I don’t care if I live or die. I’m going to go on a long fast and see what happens.” Well, this was Marathon week. It also didn’t help that my minister was on vacation and he’s pretty much the only person I ever talk to and ever listens to me and the only person who really cares about me in a meaningful way. He wasn’t even picking up his e-mail while he was on vacation, not that I blame him. I think he really needed the time off with his family. But anyway, I stopped eating or taking in any calories altogether for a bunch of days.
And along came the Marathon bomber, straight to Watertown, my town. It was 1am Thursday night and I had not eaten in god knows how long, but anyway, Puzzle let me know in the middle of the night that she was not too happy about something. I had no clue that there was gunfire outside, of course. Puzzle was crying like crazy and finally pooped on the floor. This is rather rare, so I knew she must be incredibly upset about something. I figured I’d give her a breather, take her outside, so I threw on some clothes and took her out. She was scared, darting this way and that, obviously not happy about something. It was not a “bathroom” or “tummy” issue for her, so I just took her in, which was what she really wanted, anyway. She continued to shake. I went back to sleep. In the morning I found out on the Internet that our gym was closed and wondered why, then found out all the rest, that we were in lockdown. It was day I don’t know what of my fast. I continued to not take in any nourishment and followed the news. At the end of the day, I had edema in my legs and realized I was going to have to end the fast or the edema would only get worse. Suddenly, lockdown ended and they said they had caught the bomber.
Stupid me, I had not eaten for days but I went out on a binge. Guess this was Friday night. It was a very small binge because my stomach could not hold much. Nonetheless, this is a dangerous thing to do, binge eat following a fast. You can get refeeding syndrome. I have told doctors the times that I have done this. But this time, it has happened to extreme and I fear that I am in medical danger. I feel that most doctors will just laugh at me, not believe me, not take me seriously, or tell me to try some “self control,” or whatever. I will explain further in a minute.
So that was Friday, then Saturday I probably fasted or whatever, telling myself what a shit I was, still not gaining any weight. My weight had been below 90 for quite some time and I was quite happy about this and satisfied with my weight, in fact for a long time I’d been maintaining around 90 and eating well, and it would go under and I was fine with that, too. If it went over I’d get upset.
So then our church had a service about the bombing etc and I was dying to go, but felt I couldn’t because of the bitch and because I couldn’t bring Puzzle. Actually (this is sad) I took Sunday church attendance off my calendar because of the bitch. If she is going to be there I will not be there.
Monday my CBFS worker came and AGAIN was rude enough to use my bathroom (yes, I make sure my toilet is spotless) and left very early, seeming bored with me. She knows nothing about ED and I just humor her and consider talking to her a waste of time.
The next big event, HUGE STRESS for me, was seeing my mom. No, not my choice. My brother pressured me into it and he brought her over to me. The woman is a loud rude bitch and I should not be seeing her. I have not seen her since the end of 2010 and have no intentions of seeing her again. I will not be pressured into this again. This was not healthy for me and did me no good. Did it help her? Did it make her happy? I don’t give a shit she is a hurtful, rude, insensitive bitch. And so loud the whole building could hear her and I hope they all had their hearing aids out. So that was the 24th.
It didn’t take long. People that are prone to binge eating react to huge amounts of stress. This is a biological reaction. It is not poor coping. It is a built-in biological reaction to people whose brains have been wired for binge eating due to severe malnutrition.
I saw a study done on rats. I have spoken of this study before in this blog. I did not provide the link to the You-Tube because it’s a very hard thing to watch the cruelty done to the rats, at least for me, turning these rats into binge eaters to me is like the worst thing you can do to anyone, making their lives living hell.
Anyway, this is what they did to stress out the rats: they gave them electroshock. I am not kidding you. Yeah, ECT. So the poor rats got very stressed out, and the binge eaters started to binge eat, I mean the rats they’d done very bad things to to make them into binge eaters actually ate inhuman (or should I say unrat-like) amounts 0f food.
F0lks, this was so unbearable to watch, but the scientist who was doing these cutting edge experiments just HAD to know why rats binged and thought it would give us a clue about people.
So there I was, stressed out unbelievably. I think I binged. Or maybe I didn’t, the night of the 24th. Then it was at 3:15am the 25th that a pizza arrived, delivered. I devoured it in a matter of minutes. I was a very large pizza. Then I guess I went to bed and two hours later I had no clue what had happened when I woke up. It took ages to remember. This, and all the blackout binge eating that followed, was the beginning of hell for me, and it has not stopped.
So I remained awake. It was Thursday. I am not proud of what I did next. I have not told you guys yet what I did, but I will tell you. I went to the food pantry and picked up every binge food imaginable, and some food for Puzzle. I felt horrible when I left, telling myself, “These nice ladies here don’t know it, but I am about to go home and devour all this food at once.” And I did. You guys who go to food pantries know what kind of stuff they have. Well, that’s what I ate. It took about ten hours, alternating binge eating and sleeping, to finish it all. Not that I brought home all that much. And no, I did not eat the roll of paper towels. That I left alone. It felt like an inhuman amount of food and I promised myself I would not go to the food pantry again. Yeah, like heck I’ll keep that promise.
So now I really felt like crap. The next day I was in a complete blackout. No memory of the day. Saturday I had to run an errand in Cambridge, that is, Central Square. It really sucked. I did the errand, then went to the Goodwill store. That much was good, I got some good dishes for cheap. I stopped at the coop. Fatal mistake. I bought some spices I really like and a very small amount of peanuts, and that’s it, but it felt like the peanuts sort of set me off. Next thing you knew, I was at Walgreen’s. I bought a hot pot. I have a gift card there and the gift card covered the hot pot. I was happy about this but of course, I could not leave without staring at all the junk food. I didn’t buy, just stared. Next stop: CVS. Awful. I bought candy, lots, and Pop-Tarts. I don’t know how these fit into my bag, but they did. On the way home, I tried real hard to get away with eating as many candy bars as I could without anyone noticing, which is pretty easy since folks play with their cell phones so much. I stopped at Target. There was no more room in my bag so I had them double-wrap some ice cream and a very sweet loaf of raisin bread. These I held tucked under my arm but they were very well wrapped and I was certain they were not recognizable for what they really were.
It gets worse. This already was a rather inhuman amount of food considering I was going to hold it all in my stomach and not throw it up. People who vomit can eat so much more cuz all they have to do is throw up, and then there’s room for more. Me, I hold it all in and risk stomach rupture. So I just kept eating and eating, and half of this was in a blackout. Next thing you knew, it was Sunday and I’m not even remembering what I am doing, I ordered a pizza, a huge one, and I devoured it. This ran into Monday the 29th.
On the day I saw my mom, I weighed (yes, I am going to tell you) 88 pounds. On the 29th, I weighed 116-1/2.
Now tell me that’s not dangerous. Tell me that’s not hard on your heart and your whole body.
Never mind I was fucking suicidal over it, out of my mind.
I have been told that since I ate an inhuman amount of food during that period, and experienced extreme edema, I very well could have refeeding syndrome. Not just refeeding edema. but refeeding syndrome.
I can’t seem to get too many people who matter (that is, MD’s) to take me seriously on this. Then again, I really don’ t care much.
I was able to stop binge eating at that point, for about a week. I ate nothing but vegetables and managed, finally, to get my weight under 100. I knew I had a long way to go before I would feel decent about my body again, but it was a start. I was still going through a lot of blackouts. Monday and Tuesday were a blackout pretty much.
There was another really bad stress in my life I was dealing with, the incessant beeping sound in my building due to the housing authority negligence. Last Tuesday, I went to town hall and complained. I am going back to town hall again to complain tomorrow, because the beeping has been bad this weekend and obviously the Housing Authority has done nothing.
So Saturday I had an incident of low blood sugar. I was disoriented and everything. I don’t want to go into it really, but I survived. It was mostly cognitive. Physically I could walk and everything. It’s a heredity thing. My mom has it, too. When our blood sugar drops dangerously low, I mean 50 or lower, we don’t go into a coma like a normal person would, instead we just lose it cognitively. So I was walking down a street I know well and had no clue where I was. I got home, though, and ate. Had no clue how I ended up that way or what was going on. It took a day or two to figure out that low blood sugar was the culprit.
The next day was Sunday. And no church for me. The beeping sound was intolerable to me, stressing me out unbelievably. I went out on a bad binge I guess. I don’t recall the next day, I think I was in a blackout, or I did the binge in a blackout, something like that. I know I went out right after my meds kicked in. Must have spent the next day laying in bed trying to sleep it off. Then Tuesday I went to see someone to talk about my ED, never mind who it was. Wednesday I saw my psychiatrist, and you guys heard about that. I have made the calls to treatment centers and I’m sure they will deny me, probably make suggestions of places that I have tried already, or places that have already turned me down or don’t take my insurance.
Meanwhile, the massive binge eating has continued and continued. After Tuesday, the beeping stopped, but this weekend the beeping is back with a vengeance. I’m going to have to put a coat on (maybe a winter coat as hopefully it will be cold out) to cover my body and show up at Town Hall again and complain. Tomorrow.
I really don’t want to commit suicide. This is kind of a last resort if I really can’t get the binge eating to stop. If it just keeps going and going and I see no end to it. It was that way last summer and I came very close to suicide. I really never told you guys how close I got and I sure never told the folks at the hospital in July when I got there. It had nothing to do as to why I was “sectioned.” The folks at the hospital were more interested in their ipods than they were in listening to me, so I never bothered telling them that I had made a very elaborate suicide plan and it got foiled (I fell asleep by accident) and so was unable to follow through. I never told those therapists I had because they seemed uninterested. I have not yet told my psychiatrist about my elaborate plan that I had, and how sad it was that I was in fact hospitalized for an entirely different reason and how sad it was that there was no one that I could tell until maybe two months ago about all the details and the reasons and everything. I even had the documents with me at the hospital. No one cared. I could have read them to them, but no one showed any interest whatsoever. They did not even know why I was there, and barely even cared.
All they wanted me to do was eat and not lose weight. I felt bloated and fat and wanted nothing but to lose the bloated feeling. I was so happy once I did lose the edema and felt much better, but I was unable to do this until I left the hospital. I ate hardly anything while I was there, and they kept telling me I was losing weight and this was supposed to upset me but it delighted me no end. I wanted so badly to be under 100 pounds at least, and was extremely upset once I left that I was still well over 100. I still had lots of edema and it would take a long time to get rid of it. For at least a week while I was there, I only wore a johnny cuz I was so ashamed of how fat I was.
My weight…well, right now, it’s intolerable to me. I do hope I can stop the binge eating and I don’t care how I stop it, so long as it stops and I can get rid of this weight, I’ll be much happier. I feel for people with anorexia who are forced to gain weight against their will, and then are unable to accept their new bodies. Then, just like me, they hate themselves and have very little will to live.
I have no desire to go to a treatment center and then be forced to stay at this weight. I have no desire to be brainwashed into thinking that I look terrific like this. I think I look bloated and I feel horrible. I can’t even walk. I waddle. I can’t bend my legs properly. They don’t bend all the way. When I lie down I feel uncomfortable. In any position, I feel fat and uncomfortable. I can’t go out in public because folks are gonna stare. I hate the “waddling” feeling. I loved the light feeling I had when I walked when I was thinner. I know now if I fall, I’m gonna fall hard and it’s gonna be hard to get up, just like an old lady. When I was thin, I could scramble up like a little kid. I am risking injury like this.
I weighed myself a bit ago. 112. Well, progress, but I still think it’s a disgusting, unacceptable weight and I feel suicidal at this weight. I’ll breathe a sigh of relief when I go down into the next “decade,” but still, all that is unacceptable to me and I will still feel repulsive. It’ll be easier to hide at that point, though, especially getting under 105. My arms ended up getting fat, too. Aw, man, that loss kills me.
See, I congratulate anyone who can go to treatment and then feel okay about weight gain. Me, I’ve never felt okay about it. I always feel shitty about it. It’s always unacceptable to me. Guess I need some serious brainwashing into thinking it’s okay to be at some weight I now consider a nightmare weight that now puts me into the throws of suicidality.
So that’s how I relapsed into binge eating. It totally sucks and I feel like my life will continue to be living hell unless/until I can stop the binge eating. I tried a nutritionist but it was a complete waste. I can’t find a therapist, am continuing to make calls. I might call NEDA tomorrow and give them an update. I will be seeing the person I saw last week to talk about my ED, I’m seeing her and we’re trying to figure out what I can do to find a therapist and work all this out. Wish I could see her…heck, every day for godsakes. Only that would mean leaving the house with a raincoat on to cover up the weight gain. Maybe I should just take a knife and cut off the fat.
Gee, what a grand idea. Wish that would work. I’m sure it’s been tried. See ya later.
This was another one I saw, and I watched the whole thing through. A young girl who uses the word “recovery,” a word I choose not to use.
Anyway, some days I look through the You-Tubes and I hope it does not show up on Facebook which You-Tubes I am watching cuz it’s none of anyone’s business. If it is showing up, then I am disconnecting the two accounts. Sometimes, I watch some stuff I’d like no one to know about.
Actually, I like watching flicks of people dropping dead. I have a bunch of them bookmarked. I am fascinated with this. These probably eventually get taken off You-Tube and aren’t supposed to be there. They are all rather gross and for many people would consider them “sensitive material” or “triggering” but I consider it “real life.” I am fascinated with death and it’s kind of a release for me, it satisfies a deep inner need for me to watch really violent, horrible deaths.
But I want to talk about this so-called “recovery” You-Tube I saw. She has a bunch of them out. A young girl, doing very well. Let me describe what I saw.
She was out in her yard. Now, this girl is obviously from a very well-to-do family, judging by the yard and what I saw of the house. I mean really well-to-do.
Here’s how she got better. She decided one day that she was in trouble, so first after a lengthy debate, she told her mom. Her mom took it well. Her mom got her into a “support group.” Then, eventually, the girl told her dad. It was a little more difficult, but her dad was accepting, too, and all worked out fine. Sounds like her friends accepted it, too, and she mentioned nothing about losing any friends over this. The “support group” turned out to be all she needed, and she is on her way. She is gaining weight and doing fine.
She has a huge following on You-Tube and everyone tells her how beautiful she is. Indeed, she is very pretty and has everything going for her. I think her weight looks just fine to me considering her age, but she says she has more weight to gain. She talks about all the food she loves to eat.
Recovery, rah rah rah. Oh yeah, caught it early. She’s a hero, all right. I guess she was “sick” for maybe less than a year or maybe a year at most.
Me, 34 years, baby.
But for me, it was 1980, and no one had heard of eating disorders, and I didn’t even know I had one. I knew I needed help so I went to the local therapy place. I had a good therapist, but she had never heard of eating disorders, either, and didn’t know what she was dealing with. I didn’t get better with her. I got worse.
Guess it was the same story, different time.
I went and told my parents. No, they were not okay with it. I overheard my mom telling my dad, “She gives me the creeps” one night. Gee, that kinda sucked. They didn’t know what the hell to do with me and we fought a lot.
No, I don’t have a zillion You-Tube fans. I don’t think too many people even bother watching what I have up there. I’m not rah rah recovery and I didn’t go to a support group and magically get better. I don’t have a rich house. I live in poverty. I talk about reality. Maybe that’s a little too raw for people.
And I guess those that find it too raw aren’t even bothering to read this right now. Well, the heck with it.
Oh honestly, I don’t really care what people think of what I say on here. You guys know exactly what I am talking about and what I wish I had the guts to do.
Folks that don’t have the guts to read what my writings or find what I say “triggering” or are sick of reading my writings or haven’t found me yet or (most likely) don’t give a shit are not reading this right now. Or, of course, those that hate my guts and aren’t around for that reason. Oh, that too.
And really, I don’t care. The day I stop losing friends I’m really going to be rather shocked and it’s gonna take some getting used to. “Goodbye, fuck you,” seems to be my motto. So if that’s the way it is, that’s the way it is.
Hey, does talk of wanting to die make you uncomfortable? Then maybe it’s time we talked about it right here, right now. And my reasons why. If you don’t like it you can just close the window.
I saw on You-Tube (not that I watched the whole thing through, I got bored) a thingy about this young woman, late 20′s, who was anorexic and they had her frustrated parents on there. I thought her parents looked kinda old to have a daughter that young. Maybe they smoked and it made them appear older than they really were, all wrinkly and haggard and stuff. She looked about her age. She looked like she had been through a lot and actually presented herself in a rather mature manner, and it also looked like she made an effort to dress nicely, too. I knew it was hard for her in regards to the clothes part. Let me explain that part for a sec.
See, she had been wicked underweight, starving herself a lot, but then something happened, I’m not sure what, I think they forced drugs on her, and she gained weight. Quite a lot. Then she had some pain associated with the physical stuff that was going on (maybe she had some bone issues, they didn’t go into it) so she took pain pills too, and downers, too. Mostly, she used the pills, which she was now addicted to, to cope with her bad feelings about the weight gain. She took an awful lot of pills a day, many downers, and she’d built up a tolerance. From what it sounded, her weight was about what a “normal” person might call “normal” weight for her height. So was she “recovered” from her anorexia?
To me, she looked very, very uncomfortable in her body, and you could see her hatred toward her body in her eyes despite the fact that she’d made such an effort to dress well for the show. She looked so much more comfortable with herself when she was thinner, at least to me she did.
I felt so, so sorry for her, not so much because of the drug addiction, which was now probably killing her (I didn’t bother to see the rest of the show, I got bored of the drugs part) but because I felt she felt so awful about her body and she said a number of times, “I want to go back to the way I was before.”
Wow, can I identify. I guess a lot of folks would have said she was pretty good-looking but to me, that self-hatred obliterated it all. That’s how I feel about my body right now.
I haven’t showered in like a week or so, probably less than that. I think maybe Tuesday night I showered. Then, since then, I haven’t bothered. My legs are blue, all bruised from the skin having stretched so much from rapid weight gain. Actually, it’s just as well I haven’t showered, cuz the skin is cracking all over the place and I would end up with bad sores like I have before. If I showered, my skin would dry out worse. The sores can get infected and take months to heal. As for my belly, well, it’s bad, too, looks pregnant, worse than that, all stuck out and with stretch marks and bruising on that, too. Normally, it kinda sinks in and you can see my ribs and stuff. Well, no more.
I do take drugs. I douse myself up with laxatives as often and as much as I can get away with. This is for comfort. It gets the food material out of my body quicker so I don’t have to carry it around for what ends up being all day and into the next. If I did not abuse laxatives, I would quickly become impacted, anyway. A normal body cannot process this huge amount of food without abusing laxatives. Last year, I got impacted and miserable and I remember having all sorts of gas and stuff and it was bad, I was burping a lot, too, it was worse than this physically. I think if I abuse laxatives, I lessen the risk of stomach rupture. I think the electrolyte imbalance risk is also a problem, but stomach rupture is probably a bigger risk IN MY CASE. Try explaining that to a doctor, and most physical doctors tell me I will throw up before my stomach will rupture and I try to tell them no, this does not happen, my stomach will not throw up. They laugh in my face and tell me to try some self-control. Or give me some psycho mumbo jumbo that is not their territory.
I have been taking the meds I’m supposed to take but I’m sure they are having minimal effect. Oh and I douse myself up with double-dose Klonopin so I can sleep all day whenever I get the chance. This is so I won’t eat. And so I won’t live, that is, so I won’t experience anything, so I can just shut down and be asleep and not do anything all day, pretend I’m dead. I’d take 6 mgs, but I don’t quite dare. I’m not exactly teensy anymore, but I’m not really grandiose either. So 6 mgs would be a lot on a guy, too. I took 4 mgs a number of hours ago but with all the food loaded up in my stomach, these pills have done nothing. I figure my body will be digesting the food forever and forever and the Klonopin will kick in by 2 pm. Then, I won’t be able to walk a straight line. I hope I can sleep really, really nicely for many hours and forget that I’m alive.
I don’t take these pills for anxiety. I take them to make sure I’m totally knocked out. That’s the one and only reason I take them, so that’s why I take the largest dose I dare. I hate the dopey feeling I get from them when I’m awake. I’d rather not be doped up while conscious. Actually, if I could be asleep 24/7 and just wake up to walk the dog and then go back to sleep again, I’d do it. Just sleep day after day after day and do nothing. Definitely, that’s better than spending my time binge eating.
Sleeping the day away is better than doing just about anything, better than hanging with people because people have been mean fuckers lately. I can’t even stand walking down the street and walking near a crowd of people, I feel hateful feelings toward them. Like I want to tell them what assholes they are.
These folks were saying, “Happy Mothers Day!” to each other, hugging each other and putting their arms around each other. I wanted to tell them, “Yeah, assholes. Go celebrate. Eat and get fat.” Cuz all that hugging and stuff is so foreign to me. I have no family, no one to say, “Happy Mother’s Day” to, no one to put my arm around, no one to say, “See ya later,” or “It was nice seeing you,” or whatever. It’s all like a different world to me.
Do you understand what I am saying? I have NO ONE. NO ONE. No human to hug and love. Boy does that ever make me appreciate my dog a whole lot.
I guess when I hold onto that little furry creature, for hours and hours every day, I guess that makes me tell myself I don’t have the guts just yet.
First of all, where did she get the money for the posh office in downtown Boston? I don’t mean JP or Brighton or Revere, I mean Downtown Boston, not too far from our dear old Boston Marathon, well, not that close either, but not too far away. Actually, her office wasn’t all that far from my alma mater, Emerson College. Apparently she has a new office but it’s around the corner and I’m sure it’s ten times even more posh. Where did she get the damn bucks for that office?
No, this was not some office she was sharing with ten other therapists. Yes, it was a shared waiting room and there were other individual offices that used the same waiting room, but no other therapist used her office, and no other therapist used her computer. This was her fucking office and once she left it, no therapist used it, ever. She was not some fly-by-night therapist like that quack I saw a couple of months ago. And yes, she was licensed and had her LICSW, meaning she could “section.” Oooh, she loved that power, too, probably why one reason she chose the degree in the first place.
So you’d go up to the penthouse, that would be the 11th floor. Now you’d get off the elevator and there you’d be. No other offices would be there, just her waiting room and the other therapy offices. Sometimes, some yoga people would be there, but usually it was just M doing her thing with the other therapists who had their offices off the waiting room, and I honestly don’t know a thing about the other therapists. They were all female. All young and trendy.
Now I say penthouse. It had a skylight. Nice, eh? And it was very sunny, with tables and such, where you could sit down and have your lunch, or sit and read or something, and it would be dead quiet, no stupid radio or anything, and not too many magazines or crossword puzzle magazines or Highlights for Children or diabetes magazines or anything like that.
One weird thing was that for many months, she’d keep out a bowl of nuts. Sometimes, they’d be in the shell (without a nutcracker) and sometimes, they’d be the shelled kind. An eating disorders therapist? Sometimes, she’d even have weird candies in these bowls, but usually, there would be nuts. I always thought this might be a problem since a lot of her clients had eating issues.
I always appreciated that she had tea bags and a water kettle there. And also, a water dispenser, you know, those water bottles that dispense bottled water (even though we all know bottled water is kind of a waste). I would always get the water hot for her so she could have tea. I thought it was nice for me to do her this favor. It always pissed me off that there were not enough caffeinated tea bags among the many varieties of tea there, but that was okay. If I searched long enough, I could find something that I was okay with. These were usually called things like “Yoga tea,” shit like that.
She did not have cream or lemon for the tea, but she had some sort of stevia or something like that, which I do not put in tea anyway. Sometimes, I brought my own tea bags just for the heck of it. I got sick of hers.
There were two bathrooms, one adjacent to the other. It was cold in both bathrooms. Every time I went to see her, I’d use the bathroom beforehand so that I wouldn’t have to interrupt the session if I had to pee. So wouldn’t you know it, M thought I was throwing up in there before every session, even though I established early on that I do not do this. I also asked her to speak with my previous therapist, N, who probably had told her the same darned thing, I am not even capable of making myself vomit. This was a never-ending battle between us, M accusing me of lying to her.
So now let me get to her office. You’d walk in there and there would be the overwhelming odor of this awful potpourri. I mean, aren’t people allergic to that stuff? It reeked in her office. So for all I knew, she herself was throwing up in the wastebasket and covering up the odor with the potpourri. And damn scarves everywhere. These were used for psychodrama. And freaking stuffed animals.
Now folks, as soon as I saw those damned stuffed animals I should have known to run in the opposite direction and keep on running. Any therapist that has stuffed animals, stay away. Because unless this is a children’s therapist, there should not be children’s toys in the therapist’s office, right?
But this therapist, she kept on encouraging me to talk to the damn animals. No, I did not want to talk to any damned stuffed animals or make up pretend games with them, but she insisted. It was idiotic, I’d say.
This was how she manipulated her patients, playing pretend games. She’d make up games and get her patients to cry. And then she’d tell them she had all the answers, and say she was their savior and could help them out of their misery, but only if they carefully followed her instructions and worshiped her like she was a god. If her patients screwed up, it was their fault for not following her, of course, or for being unfaithful to her.
This is how manipulative therapists work. You think they have all the answers. You think they are gods. You think they are the greatest and that they can save you. You think they are the one and only. The truth is, you are addicted to them and they are killing you.
You want oh so much to please this therapist, but no matter how hard you try, you can’t, because this therapist will never be quite pleased with you. You are not trying hard enough. You are not doing well enough. You need more therapy. You are sick.
No, it’s not your fault. The therapist did this to you, and brought you into this situation. The therapist needs you just as much as you need the therapist. These abusive therapists feed off of your need. That’s why they get into fields like eating disorders, because people with eating disorders have body issues, so there’s a lot of control going on, such as weekly weigh ins, food journals, and the like. Your therapist will insist on knowing everything you eat, what you weigh, what you do for exercise, everything about your life. This is a control freak at work.
No, not all “eating disorders specialists” are like this. Most aren’t. But this therapist, M, was. I do know others who were harmed by her.
Oh, I do need to mention the “crack.” I know I’ve mentioned it on here before, but no profile of M can be complete without mentioning her style of dress. That crack between the boobs always had to be showing. Always. Never fail. Now is this entirely appropriate for ANY therapist to show this crack? I mean, now and then, maybe occasionally, but every single freaking time that darned crack HAD to be showing? I think it was compulsive on her part. Either that or her boobs were so big that every which way she dressed, the darned crack kept showing. But I don’t think so. I mean, I’m a rape victim, and I know how to cover up, it’s possible to cover that darned crack without too much effort and I’m telling you, she made an effort to show off the darned crack.
I have to give her credit for not showing the ass crack. Now that would not be okay, would it?
Are you cracking up yet? I hope so. See ya later, alligators.
So I got a callback from the hospital “set on rolling hills” and as I expected, it’s for the rich. But the nice lady referred me to four hospitals that accept Medicare. I called all four.
One said if I moved to Maryland they would take me. Oh great.
Another pointed out that my Medicare “lifetime 190 days” are used up. These are permanent days and once you use them up, forget it. However, I have heard that Obama has done away with this stupid policy. Never mind where I heard this from, but it’s from a good reliable source, from someone with very good connections directly to Obama himself, not a “mental health” connection. This person said that the hospitals are not yet aware that Obama has obliterated this stupid 190-day limit. So you have to fight the hospitals and even get legal help. But don’t quote me on it. I am contacting the person as we speak, and like I said, never mind who it is, the person has “connections.”
Anyway, let me sidestep by saying that whoever invented the 190-day limit seemed to forget that some people tend to live past 25 years old. I wasted all these 190 days at McLean Hospital in the 1990′s. It was a total waste. They spent all their time telling me how badly I belonged in the state hospital and how I would never be able to do college, etc. They always discharged me before I was ready, so I would spend more inpatient days than needed due to ending up right back in there because they didn’t do the job right in the first place. I would always get the promise, “We’ll do better with you this time,” and they never did better, ever.
So anyway, I made those four calls to those four rich hospitals. I’ve got the list right here. One in California, one in Maryland (the one that said if I was in-state, they’d take me), one in Wisconsin, and one in North Dakota. The one in California I had to call a bunch of times cuz they kept forgetting to call me back. Finally, they remembered, and it turned out I was supposed to fill out a questionnaire and send it back. In the middle of the questionnaire, which as you can imagine I was having loads of fun with, they called to inform me that my 190 days were used up. I called and told them I knew an Obama lawyer and would send them the questionnaire anyway and would get back to them. The lady was very rude to me but I have sent the questionnaire and have tried to get in touch with the person I know. I highly doubt this is gonna fly, folks. There will be some hitch.
The hospital in North Dakota is supposed to call me Monday. Will they remember? I doubt it. I will phone them if they don’t remember by noon.
Now for this hospital in Wisconsin. I told them I was suicidal. So what do they do? They asked me if I wanted to go to a local hospital here to get checked out. I told them the local emergency rooms know nothing about ED’s and laugh in my face. Then what next? The police show up at my door.
Oh, our lovely heroic Watertown Massachusetts cops. Oh yes, and they are looking down on me like I am Welfare scum as usual.
So I impressed them with my brains. Yes, I do have brains. Brains that my dad passed on to me. I guess our lovely heroic Watertown cops don’t believe that people with brains can possibly be mental patients or possibly be crazy. I must have really impressed them or bored them to death with statistics and stuff about eating disorders and why people with eating disorders can’t find therapists or get proper care and why people with eating disorders die and why people with eating disorders commit suicide. So they were satisfied and left. Later, they called. Again, they were satisfied that I was just fine, I sounded nice and technologically cool. Technology always impresses people like that, they think people who are mental cases can’t do computers or anything like that, or can’t have a master’s degree, or can’t write books or spit out statistics.
I mean, the same thing happens on the suicide hotlines, I notice. I start getting all smart sounding, and they assume I am fine and hang up the phone. I guess I’m supposed to be in tears, or “talk down,” like I often do.
Of course, this can be to your advantage when trying to get out of a mental hospital or get out of getting sectioned. Just act educated and you are more likely to convince them that you are not a mental patient. They assume all mental patients are dumb. Use proper grammar and use technology. Talk about operating systems. Don’t talk about operating systems unless you know what you are talking about.
I’ll never forget how I impressed the Crisis Team and they completely forgot all about me when I said I was making a You-Tube. Most of “their people” have no clue how to make a You-Tube. Folks, it’s simple to make one. Just impress the cops with technology and you’ll be fine, they will assume you are not a mental patient.
Also, never keep prescription bottles anywhere in sight or any drugs or any evidence that you take prescription drugs of any sort. This includes in wastebaskets. Be very careful about this because if cops come to your house, they will indeed glance in wastebaskets. Hide your written prescriptions. They will read them and if it says a psych med, you are more likely to get sectioned.
So I did ask this hospital in Wisconsin about having sent the cops, and said, “This was deceptive. You should have given me the option of calling the local crisis team or something. Our hospitals are terrible and our ER’s know nothing about ED, and that’s what I told you.” The lady told me that it was standard practice for their doctors to send the cops when someone was out of state. Still, I do not respect this too much. All I did was mention suicide. Why the hell didn’t their doctor get on the phone and fucking talk to me? They are just avoiding a lawsuit I suppose. Doing their duty.
So I had a phone interview with the people in Wisconsin, who have not yet noticed that I have used up my 190 days. I decided not to mention it to them and hope they do not notice. McLean never noticed in 2011 and I stayed there three weeks, on them. Not that it helped me to be there or anything. Actually, the place was rather crappy and the floor was so dirty that you had to wipe off your feet before putting your socks on. The toilets…oh geez, I cleaned them off…shit and piss all over the toilet seats every single time you went to the bathroom. Very bad place. Actually, other than the fact that it was filthy…oh, and the staff played with their iphones more than they did anything else…and the food was so bad it looked like puke. Geez, I dunno, but the patients were really great, guess that made up for it all. They did not “censor” conversations, so we could talk with each other all we wanted. This one patient, she went around counseling other patients cuz the staff were mostly unavailable, until the staff told her to quit it. Can you blame her? I don’t.
So I guess that’s all the places, four of them, that I called. I feel rather hopeless, and told all of them this. I told them if I can’t stop binge eating I am likely to kill myself, or if I get above a certain weight I will also kill myself. So this is the dilemma. I told myself I get out of the hospital feeling suicidal so I lose the weight and then feel a whole bunch better about myself.
I don’t really want a hospital. I don’ t want to be locked up and I don’t believe in coercive care. All those places are alike, they all sound alike to me.
I wrote to the Empowerment Project and asked them what they are doing for eating disorders and they did not write back. So I assume they are doing nothing for eating disorders. Maybe I will have to start something.
Or I guess I will kill myself, because in dying, I will have an impact on the world. No one is really listening to me and nobody even reads what I write. I lose all my friends even faster than I make them.
As a person with a master’s degree, because I am a “Welfare case” and a “mental case” my degree means nothing and nobody respects me as a writer. I tell people I am a published writer and they nod and say, “Yeah, sure, Julie, wanna go to the mental hospital now?”
Even my brothers have not purchased or read This Hunger Is Secret. I am not kidding you. They have shown minimal interest.
I feel like a total loser.
Sometimes I feel like if my stomach ruptures in a binge, that might be a good way to go, if nothing else. Not that I’m trying or anything, but it might happen, it could happen, and I know it happens quickly. They say it makes a sound. It is a chemical-free way to go. Of course, it’s extremely painful, and I’m sure it’s disgusting, and I’m sure a lot of people go that way and it is never found out. I’ll bet they just say, “Heart attack,” and no one really investigates or does an autopsy. I’m quite surprised I haven’t died that way yet.
Honestly, it would make quite a statement, wouldn’t it? I can’t get respect any other way than by dying. People just turn their backs on me. Especially when I could use a friend or some company. You die, you even get a ceremony. People turn out by the hundreds. I’ll get flowers, too.
Thirty-four years of this fucking disorder and how many times have I gotten flowers? Maybe five. I die, and finally, I get flowers. Not that I’m really going to give a shit.