I don’t know what to do

I don’t know what to do.  I am not having any overt symptoms of starvation.  I don’t know why.  I appear in every way to be fine.   I am not dizzy.  I am happy.  I don’t have palpitations.  I am not confused.  I can concentrate just fine.  I don’t get headaches.  I have not fainted.  I don’t feel particularly weak.  I do many things and have a full life.

Tonight, some of my friends suggested that I go to the emergency room.  Any of you who take psych meds know that you are not respected in ER’s if you take them.  They either poo-poo what you tell them, or think you’re attention-seeking, or med-seeking, or they automatically  admit you to a psych ward.  Besides, I have no symptoms.  What complaints can I present?  That I am starving?  What kind of sense does that make?

Well, I’m not eating enough, and I’m scared about what I’m doing to myself.

I did have a breakthrough recently.  I decided to be honest with my therapist.  This is something new!  She is hopeful.  She sees this as a turning point.  I told her I’d been lying to stay out of the ED hospital, and that I’ve been restricting and that I hadn’t followed my meal plan, not for a single day since I’d gotten out of there.  I had been lying.  Big lies.  And now she knows.  So therapy isn’t a big waste anymore.  But I don’t know.  She’s more hopeful than I am at this point.

Toward the end of our session yesterday, there was something I wanted to tell her, but was unable.  I wanted to tell her how much I weighed.  She hadn’t asked me.  I’d been weighed at the doctor’s when I’d been seen the day before.  She forgot to ask.  I don’t know if the number is important, but I weigh less than she thinks.  When she asked me how my eating was going, which of course we discussed for a while, she only believed what she wanted to believe: that I had improved since this “big breakthrough.”  I haven’t.  I have got to tell her this, because as we have established, “Every day is ‘Honesty Day’ at my T’s office.

So, “Ed.” take that.

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Book acceptance–Day Two

Well, I am basking in it.  It still feels fantastic that my book will be published.  I believe in this book.  It is my master’s thesis, after all!  It is about my life.

It is also far from all of my life.  For instance, among the many things that I completely left out, there was Joe, my boyfriend, whom I adored.  We knew each other for 17 years.  He died of a heart attack in 2003.  I was devastated.  At the time that I wrote this book, I was not ready to express and share my grief.  So I left him out, but I did dedicate the book to him.

I know that at some point there will be a letdown.  I will not always be this elated.  It will be like postpartum depression.  We’ll see.

My anorexia is the worst it’s ever been

It’s never been this bad.  Ever.  My weight has been lower than this, but the obsession has never been this intense.  Two days ago I believe I stepped on the scale about 20 times over the course of the day.  That’s stupid.  All the planning, scheming, counting calories, changing my mind over and over about what I’m going to eat or not eat, challenging myself to go longer and longer without eating…this is going to get me killed.

This month has been the worst.  At the beginning of the month, I made a promise to myself, and have kept that promise.  This has gotten me into a pattern that only worsens as time goes on.

A week ago, I decided to be honest with my therapist.  I told her everything.  Well, not everything, but I told her, in a letter–two letters, fairly long letters–that I’d been lying to her and my entire treatment team.  I told them that I hadn’t followed my meal plan for a single day since getting out of the ED hospital in March, and that I didn’t weigh what they thought I weighed.  I told her I had lied really bad lies to stay out of the ED hospital.  I told her I needed her help, and that the hospital was not the answer, given that I had been there twice and it hadn’t worked either time.

It was scary being honest, but I had to do it.  The scale had dipped under 90 pounds and I was really worried about what I was doing to myself.  I know that when the body is starving, it eats itself.  When it has no more fat to eat, it eats its own organs.   The scale is still going down rapidly and I’m terrified.

I’m not getting heart palpitations.  My concentration is fantastic.  I’m not dizzy.  I’m steady on my feet.  I don’t get confused or disoriented.  I think my thinking is clear.  I’m definitely not depressed and I’m not manic.  Mentally, except for the ED obsession, I’m stable.  I have no trace of schizoaffective disorder whatsoever.  Yet if you knew how little I am eating, you’d think I’d have fainted once or twice by now, and that my meds weren’t even working.  How can a person exist on so little food?

Well, I’m fine.  I’m happy.  Worried, but happy.  This sucks.