You have anorexia.
I didn’t lose enough weight, and I currently weigh too much. I’m not anorexic.
I’m still somewhat in denial.
I have accepted I have an eating disorder. But I tell myself all the time it’s not that bad, it wasn’t that bad, and I need to lose so much more weight to have that diagnosis. Anorexia tells me I haven’t lost enough weight to deserve help, and especially a serious diagnosis. I think most of my family and friends wouldn’t believe me if I attached the word anorexia to myself.
This is stopping me from seeing a psychiatrist.
I am afraid of that word–anorexia–to be put on paper attached to my name. I’m simultaneously afraid I’m far too fat to even be given that diagnosis by a psychiatrist in the first place and therefore not be validated.
I need to hear that I do, in fact, meet the criteria for anorexia. Because I love to tell myself I can’t continue receiving help/be in recovery unless I have met the criteria. It’s akin to an achievement. A very, very, sick achievement. But on the way down the rabbit hole, I spend a lot of time repeating that it’s not that bad, it’s not that bad, its not that bad, I’m fine and I don’t need help. Being unwell looks like 80 pounds, not 120. or 115. or 110. or 105.
Basically, anorexia is saying you can’t marry me and then divorce me unless you weigh 100. or 95. or…further down the rabbit hole. I know that number would change the closer I got to it. I know when I was 103 and the number before that was 105, I immediately changed it to 99. I’m not really sure there is an end. I know none of this truly makes logical sense. A part of me knows this is all bullshit and I obviously need help. But the other part of me that cannot stop dancing with Anorexia feels handcuffed. I can’t let go. I want to let go, but I can’t. If I could I really think I would. This is ruining my life.