I am a torrent of emotions right now. I feel anxious, sad, terrified, hopeful…all at once. Mostly, though, I am disappointed in myself. Disappointed that I couldn’t do it by myself, that I have once again gotten to a place where I need other people’s guidance. And than there is still that part of me that whispers It’s not that bad, it’s really not. You are not sick enough, you will never be sick enough, stop making such a fuss!
Oh yes, my eating disorder. The number can never be low enough to justify getting help, never low enough to finally recover.
And yet, even as I recognize that truth, part of me still wonders. Am I sick enough this time? I haven’t reached the same dark place I was at before so why I am seeking treatment again? Shouldn’t I be able to recover by myself this time?
Is it all pointless, a vicious cycle of treatment-sickness-wellness-treatment?
And still, a part of me desperately hopes that it’s not pointless. That recovery, while not perfect, is possible.
Because dear God, it may not be as bad as last time, but living with any eating disorder is a living hell.
So, I go to treatment tomorrow. Trying to keep an open heart and mind. Trying to shut off the eating disorder voice that has steadily gotten louder.
Staying cautiously optimistic.