This is so miserable. SO MISERABLE. I want to take my emotions, throw them in a river, and watch them drown.

Do you want some lotion?

No. Thanks.

I can’t come to therapy without taking a lorazepam. If I don’t take one I start out at an 8/10 and can’t answer a simple question without rising to a 9. I decline the lotion without even thinking because anxiety answered for me. Accepting a tool for help is apparently not on anxiety’s list of things I’m allowed to do. I glance at the slinky next to the chair ten separate times and think, pick it up, it will help. I know it will help. I just have to have something in my hands and it will slowly relieve some of the anxiety. But I’m frozen in the chair and can’t bring myself to help myself. Like seriously, why? I make no sense, ever.

It’s also the eating disorder talking. If I let the anxiety come down, I’ll eat what’s in my purse, and I’ll gain a million pounds. 🙄

The intention was to eat what was in my purse. Why is there so much resistance? Again, no sense.

I know there is a hair tie in my purse and that would help … if only it could magically appear in my hands because I’m still frozen from helping myself. The whole intention of having an appointment to begin with is to help myself. Why does that thought process go out the window the minute I sit down? Also, no sense.

I feel a little bit of resistance to even try to feed the good wolf. I feel inherently bad and unworthy, and as if it’s just my destination to feed the bad wolf. I want to lose weight. I am not tolerating where I’m at well, at all. And I’m maintaining that with starvation which is frightening to say the least because that means I can barely eat anything or I’ll gain weight.

This was part of the sermon on Sunday:

Matthew 6:25

Do Not Worry

“Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes?

Of course, the sermon had nothing to do with eating disorders. But this stuck with me. I keep going because this keeps happening and I continue to hope somehow living will make more sense. That there will be a rope. Or a hand. Or a hug.

The very first therapist I ever saw was an intern at an IOP place when I was 19 because it was the only deal I could find that had a major sliding scale (cash on a college student who was too afraid to use parents insurance…I think I paid $15) and also specialized in eating disorders. It lasted 3 times. It only lasted that long because I learned in Psychology 101 to always give someone 3 sessions. I can’t be more knowledgable about what’s going on than the therapist and on top of that every single time, she pressed religion. She was certain I presented the way I did because I was missing the spirituality piece. Maybe that’s a factor, I am certainly not denying that is a completely empty area of my life. But, the way she did it was accusatory and made me feel inferior and like I wasn’t answering her questions the way I “should” be. She told me I needed to figure out what/who I believed in/of or I wouldn’t be able to move forward. The last session I drove home and cried the whole way because I knew there wasn’t any other way I could afford anything legitimate, and I knew I couldn’t go back to her. I had lost all hope and knew I needed so much help that didn’t involve requiring proof of baptism first.

Retrospectively I can see what she was getting at but she heavily missed the mark. And somehow caused me to feel like subscribing to religion would take away my eating disorder. Which I recently realized I  never actually wanted. I’ve clung to it too many times and at this point, it’s just a part of my story that I hope isn’t a part of my daily life, eventually, ever again. But not that it never existed.

This is not the life I want to live. This is not the life I want to live. This is not the life I want to live.

Also, congratulations I just wasted the first 20 minutes of my session not holding myself together.

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