I AM HEALTHY… and done fighting.

Today when I left my appointment I felt stressed, discouraged, frazzled, and just pretty done.
Even my little brother, well, I can’t even call him that. My younger brother, he is 13 and is taller than I am by a lot and weighs about the same as me. He could tell I was upset when I was leaving today. He asked why I was crying, I wasn’t, I was just rubbing my face. He didn’t know where we were, or what I was doing; he stayed outside, listening to music. In all honesty seeing my brother so concerned about me and defensive made me feel like I was important. “What the hell happened in there? Are you ok?” I was waiting for the words “Who’s ass do I have to kick..” bc I could feel it coming.
I honestly feel like recovery isn’t for me.
I’m not saying I want to die. I’m just kind of done.
Done fighting, done exerting energy I don’t have. Just over it all.
I felt very discouraged today. My relationships are fucked up. I am very apathetic. I am the healthiest/fattest/laziest/ etc person ever with an eating disorder.
Yes, C, yes. I would love to go into treatment. Almost have to want to give a damn about getting better. Be forced to do things that will help me to get better. I cannot miss work, I cannot miss that much school. I don’t have that kind of money to just piss away.
I’ve kinda just become accepting and half-ass with everything. I’ve given up and in. C wanted to talk to my doctor… fine, give me the damn paper to sign. Want to talk to my best friend? Fine, I’ll give you the number, I’ve become almost passive, just trying to placate her and the eating disorder. I’ve become a hollow vessel full of nothing but self hatred. In my hand during my appointment was my coffee cup. If you would have looked closer you would have seen the picture of my sister and I on the side of it. Our fingers laced crossing the finish line of one of our runs. I almost began to cry as I saw her beautiful face while talking about inpatient. Yes, I would love to go into treatment and get better, because this is not living, and I would never want to leave my sister.
Being told I have to make a doctor appointment was irritating. I hate doctors, I spent weeks upon weeks having at least one doctor appointment a week. I’m not sure what you want to hear. My blood work has came back almost perfect every time. My weight? pretty fat. I AM HEALTHY.

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I squat over 100 lbs with the bench press bar.
I leg press more than twice my body.
I run miles on miles on top of miles.
I dead lift.
Clean and Jerk.
I am the healthiest person with an eating disorder ever.
Being told I need to go to the doctor just felt like I wasn’t believable.
Trust me, I have wished, hoped, PRAYED that something would be funky, wrong, bad. That my esophagus would rupture.. ANYTHING. It hasn’t happened… because I am unfortunately FUCKING HEALTHY.
I’m done fighting for something that has no importance to me… me.

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“I Understand.”

Those words, around me, can get you into a whole world of trouble. You might as well wander a land mine field blindfolded and hope for the best. It is an eruption waiting to happen, walking barefoot in the dark in a room of legos; it is inevitable that something bad will be the outcome of using those words.

Whether it is the loss of a child or loved one, being diagnosed with cancer, or talking to someone with a mental illness, it is very gutsy to use the words “I understand”.

“I understand,” is something that people with an eating disorder do not want to hear. “I got sick once for a week and lost weight.” “I fasted before.” All of these are not ok. Unless you, personally have struggled, battled, suffered, with an eating disorder and the dark hell, and torment it resides inside of you, then no, you do not understand. The devil on your shoulder that criticizes, judges, dictates, demands, guilts, defends, and antagonizes.

“I hate, hate grocery shopping.” “I understand.” Hah, no, no you don’t. The aspects you hate are seeing people you know, having to make polite chit chat, having to dodge in and out of people, spending money, and having to deal with people. The aspects I hate are the picking up food, putting it back, picking up, putting back. Reading labels, putting it back, counting calories which leads to miles, putting it back. Visualizing how difficult it will be to purge the foods I’m buying and dealing with my anxiety, shaking, panic attack, and sweats. After over an hour of wandering up one aisle, down another, mentally freaking out, I left with fresh fruits and plain Greek yogurt.

Do not tell me you “understand”, when no, no you do not; for your sake, I hope you never do.