That light at the end of the tunnel

I'm spiraling out of control. This thing I'm doing is not called living.  I used to measure my wellness based on the number of days I went without a binge/purge/restrict, but now I measure it by the number on the scale. When someone asks me how I'm doing, I lie.  I'm not ok, or alright, or good, and I've become so good at hiding it.  At any given moment, I am thinking about how to look normal, my racing heartbeat, the number of calories I did or didn't consume, what I wish I could be eating, my next binge, where a discrete bathroom is, the next time I can body check without anyone noticing.  These, in turn, lead me to feel worthless, pathetic, and crazy; so much so that I answer with a rehearsed smile and a quick ok, alright, or good. Because even though I know I'm not ok, alright, or good, hearing myself tell someone that I am, makes me feel normal, because that's what normal people say.  But if you want my honest answer, I would tell you that I am neurotic and want to claw the flesh off my body.  And who wants to hear that?

Until a few months ago, I thought I found something good for the first time.  I thought that that something would help me find the strength within myself to fight the evil voices and free myself from the icy grips of addiction.  I thought I had finally gone through all there is to go through and that that something was my way out, my light, my guide to health and happiness.  But just like everything else that ever happened in my life, that something turned out to be a mere illusion.  I expected too much and fell.  Hard. I should've seen it coming. The black cloud that hangs over my head doesn't only bring me down; it grows and fucking grows into a hideous, overweight monster of a beast and looms ominously over all those unlucky ones around me until it becomes pointless to stick around. This is why I isolate. Hindsight bias is a bitch.  If I learned anything from my addictions, I've learned that it is very difficult to come across someone who is accepting of my flaws, or whatever you want to call them. To be accepting of one's flaws is to see the person as bigger (haha) than his/her flaws and to respect the person enough to allow him/her to make mistakes and grow from them, all without judgment. I don't know about you but that's how I see it. 

So how am I doing?  I'm in worse condition than I ever was and I'm surprised every day a heart attack doesn't come on.  My enamels have thinned out, again, and I feel a couple shaky teeth, again.  That alone would be a giant sign for most to turn things around, but not for me.  Why not?  Because self-destruction entices me.  There's something beautiful and ethereal about slowly destroying one's own body and watching it wither away a piece, a pound at a time, until it's laid to rest, finally. No, I'm not trying to kill myself.  Not anymore, anyway.  And don't let what I said trick you into thinking self-destruction is a choice, because it's not.  It's a result of an imbalance in the brain chemistry, and those with addictions/mental illnesses should be dealt with and treated as such.  There is no rationalizing or reasoning that can be done with someone who is addicted.  When it comes to my eating disorder in particular, I know that surpassing my 400-calorie-a-day limit is not going to turn me into a giant, disgusting tub of lard. I know that I don't have to worry about weight-gain if all I ate all day were 2 carrots and 1 lettuce leaf.  I know that eating 2 potato chips doesn't have to thrust me into a binge/purge cycle, and I know I don't have to purge after eating something off the kid's menu. I know that my ED isn't doing my osteopenia or hypothyroidism any good. I've heard everything there is to hear about eating disorders and if I had control over this thing, I would've given it up a long time ago. I am the marionette and ED is the puppeteer. 

It's hard to start the day off with a positive attitude when almost every night, I dream about getting chased, raped, and left in a pool of blood, or about not being able to purge all the pizza, donuts, and pasta I scarfed down. No, it's not the best way to start the day, so forgive me if I'm grouchy. I wake up, usually in a sweat, and that's when the nightmare really begins. Depending on what time I wake up, my anxiety varies.  The earlier I wake up, the longer I am conscious, and the longer I am conscious, the longer I am in my own head where all the painful memories, hateful messages, and self-destructive urges reside. And people wonder why I'm always chasing highs. Until the moment I fall asleep, it is a physical and mental battle to keep myself away from food, which amplifies my anxiety and thoughts of worthlessness, which lead me to a binge. Of course, if I tell myself I'll just have a bowl of cereal, it will turn into 5 bowls, 4 sandwiches, and a handful of cookies, so I avoid food altogether, unless I'm brave enough to have a slice of cheese or the whites of a hard-boiled egg. Sometimes I take the easy way out and take sleeping pills, because I see no other way to find peace and quiet.  

I hate my eating disorder for doing this to me. I hate that it robbed me of 12 years of my life and I hate that it controls my every move, every thought, every emotion of every day.  I hate that it is always right under my nose just waiting for me to fuck up.  I hate that I'm an anxious wreck at social events.  I hate that I've never had a holiday meal. I hate that everyday on my way home, I stop to eat at as many restaurants as I can afford to. I hate that it has made being in a relationship pretty much impossible.  I hate that it's created happiness anxiety. I hate my tendency to fuck shit up when things are going relatively normally, just so I can find comfort in the chaos. I'm so fucking sick and tired of living this way.  If all goes well, I will be back in inpatient treatment in November, but I can only imagine the amount of damage I can do until then.  I know myself well enough to know that therapy and other outpatient programs will do nothing to help, so I will have to try to stay sane and alive enough to make it to treatment. To be honest, I kind of don't want to go to treatment because it's gonna be fucking hard.  Being in treatment last year was one of the most difficult things I've ever done.  Talking about feelings 24/7 is exhausting and I despised going through weight restoration and seeing the pounds and fat build up on every inch of my body. And recovering from an eating disorder, or any other addiction, isn't just quitting that unhealthy behavior.  It's changing your entire life and outlook on life.  It's finding and maintaining self-respect, self-love, and internal motivation so you can actually carry out what you've learned and apply it to your every day life, post-treatment. All this is obviously made a little easier if you surround yourself with good, safe people, but that's hard to come by, at least in my experience.

I fantasize about the days I can finally sit down at a restaurant with people and order whatever sounds good on the menu, or the days I can actually eat the food that I cook.  I am fat. I am worthless.  No one wants me. I don't deserve anyone.  Everyone is an evil, manipulative liar who will ultimately end up hurting me.  I don't deserve to be happy.  I've been in treatment - I should know better. I will never be good enough. I long for the days these thoughts come to an end. If I can't stop my behaviors on my own, the next best thing I can do for myself is be patient and ride it out.