2005-10-24, 8:29 a.m.
I still have trouble saying it: What ails me, my "disease", my addiction, and my life. I have trouble putting my name and the label in a sentence. With the diagnosis comes assumptions and with assumptions comes judgment. I don't want to be judged anymore. I don't want to fit the criteria or steroetype of the other people who struggle with this.
It's funny about others in my same shoes. They get more room to screw up then I. It's okay for them because they're really struggling...they have a lot of issues...and life has really beaten them down. It's okay for them to cry or ask for help or mess up sometimes. But for me? That's another story. With the inability to fess up with this problem comes the inability to get the same leeway as others like me.
Like me? Am I really like them? I don't have misinterpretations when it comes to how I look. I know what parts of my body are bad and need improving. I know what parts are okay and can be left alone. I don't see a 400 pound person in the mirror like they think I do. I just see ugly, stupid, and of course: fat.
I'm not saying I'm in denial about having a problem. I know I'm screwed up. Infact, sometimes I wonder if I'm so screwed up I'll never recover. But I just can't say it. Those words that you hear in AA, OA, NA, and whatever else.
Hi my name is Melissa and I am --
It hurts too much to admit. I can casually throw the word around when talking about myself or even easier someone else. But the idea of telling the people in my life what's really going on makes me turn to stone. Sometimes I think I'd be okay with them knowing, just if I didn't have to say it.
Hi my name is Melissa and I am bulimic and anorexic.
My heart hurts when I type that. With the word "bulimic" you see a dirty, greedy slob. With anorexic you see skin and bones, picking at lettuce, so frail you're afraid to touch them. I'm not either. I just have, you know, a serious eating problem.
Rita, the case manager at the hospital says I'm dying. If not physically, emotionally. She emphasized my darkest hurts by saying I have no friends, I'm emotionless, I'm depressed, and I've cut off everyone around me. Then she had to throw in that I could be dying physically, too.
I don't see what they do. They seem to think I'm at some fragile state. When taking walks at program I have to be asked if I'm okay to walk, pushed to take water, then they ask the other staff if I'm approved for walks. What the fuck? They say people like me (I can't say it), are at risk for cardiac arrest any moment. I say to them, trying to get the upperhand on things, "But i've never had any problems! Not even fainting!" But they say this is an accumlative disease. So basically I'm a time bomb, waiting to go off.
Then there's program. I'm so sick of program. I'm tired of eating and i'm tired of pretending I'm eating. I'm tired of trying to make them see how good I'm doing so they don't send me to residential 24-hour care but in reality I'm so sad inside. I'm sad and tired and I don't want to wake up to another day of confronting issues.
I feel despondent. I want to tell them I feel like there is no hope and I am going to die but I really don't care if I die anymore. I want to tell them I can't do this and please just let me die but still come to program so I won't be so lonely.
I want to ask for help but that'd be admitting I have a problem.