Chapter 1129

And so it begins, yet another chapter in my battle with mental illness. Another battle in a war that seems without end, with no white flag in sight. Next Monday I will finally face my eating disorder, while being admitted to a specialist facility. My family and friends have expressed great relief at my impending incarceration, for them this is the light they were waiting for, having stared down the tunnel of my illness for so long without respite. Help is at hand, the end is nigh, hope flickers on the horizon. And I can see why they feel that way, the basic fact is that my problems with food and body image now consume my world and they feed into my other mental health problems. They fertilise the darkness inside me, help the inky tendrils grow further and faster, sharp thorns sprouting and piercing my thoughts with greater frequency.

Most people can’t possibly understand the uncertainty I feel; the anxiety; the overwhelming, crushing fear. They can’t understand how I became so overwrought in the week leading up to my assessment that I made suicide attempt number 74 (came so close this time, I could taste the success!). Surely I should be jumping at the chance to rid myself of this monkey on my shoulder? But after 7 years, my eating disorder is so much a part of my life that it feels like a friend. It is always there for me, offers words of encouragement when I do well, sticks by me through difficulties and after a life of mediocrity I have finally found something I’m good at. And now I have to let it go, fear number one, who am I without it and how will I get through the hard times without it?

Fear two, what if I give recovery my all, kick ED ass, and then my depression doesn’t magically lift like the doctors say it will? What if I give up the one thing I have that’s mine and I’m left with the rest of my broken brain, the part that I have no control over?

Fear three is an obvious one – gaining weight. ED therapists talk a lot about the bodies comfortable ‘resting weight’. That is, the weight/size you would be if you ate normal healthy meals and exercised regularly. I know that the weight I am now is nowhere near my resting weight, I am built to be curvy, with wide shoulders, hips and some junk in my trunk. But that’s not what I want, I want to defy biology and fix my shape from the bones out. But recovery means gaining weight, numbers creeping up, the most terrifying thought there is for me. More terrifying than dying. Which is ridiculous, completely and utterly ridiculous. But knowing it is ridiculous makes no difference. I can see the rational thoughts, I can say them aloud, I can acknowledge the facts: my body and brain are exhausted and my immune system is shattered, I have no hope of fighting my depression if I stay as I am.

But knowing what is right and believing it are two different things, so for the next 7 days I will fight to remember the facts, to focus on the logical, to not let my fear overwhelm me. To not think about the fourth fear, failure.