My heart is pounding. Waves of blood beat through my veins and as the panic settles in, heat radiates off my flesh. I can’t hold myself any tighter but maybe if I do I will disappear.

We are just talking.

But I am barely talking because I can barely breathe and I’m so hungry. My brain is mush and I want, very badly, to contribute more. I want to cry the thousand tears that are begging to be released. I want her to know all of these things but my jaw clenches tight and my brain can’t seem to communicate with any parts of my body to make anything cooperate. I open my mouth and my vocal chords forget how to work. There are so many words waiting to be set free but I can’t figure out how to piece the letters together and paralyzing frustration ensues.

My tear ducts fill and the salty solution dissipates before I can get any relief. She keeps talking and I am trying so hard just to concentrate on comprehending each word because what is louder is this: you’re so fat, why are you even here? Your BMI isn’t even low enough. You didn’t run enough this morning. You can’t recover fast enough and you can’t stay sick long enough, you are truly failing at everything. You shouldn’t eat the rest of the day.

But I’m so, so, hungry.

If I could just eat, I could focus and maybe the fog would lift and we could get somewhere. I think about reaching into my purse and actually eating because I’m not sure how much more I can actually comprehend without eating. But a new wave of anxiety stops that idea in its tracks and I am reminded once again that I don’t need any more calories.

I’m afraid eating won’t lift the fog and I will discover I am incapable of making sense of any coping tools. I am afraid I am unintelligent. I am afraid to discover that I still hate myself, recovered.

It’s a deeply dark and desperate feeling that nags me to throw in the towel.

One thought on “In therapy

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