I was discharged from the ED service today. Partly by choice, partly because there is not much more they can do for me when I’m not playing ball and trying to help myself. I had been seeing a lovely counsellor: she was practical, solution-focused, sympathetic, knowledgeable, understanding…everything you could ask for in a support service really. She knew her stuff, and she taught me everything I would need to know about recovering from bulimia, but it still wasn’t enough. I sat there in front of this lovely person offering me incredible support, and all I had to do was say ‘yes I want to keep trying’. But I didn’t. I wouldn’t.
I want to be recovered, I hate this awful life-sucking illness. But with recovery comes weight gain and I’m just not willing to pay the price. I’m not ready to give it up. I have been sick for 20 years and if I give it up now I’ll have nothing to show for it. It will mean admitting it was all a waste. How can I get better if I don’t ever really believe I’ve been sick? Damn you ED, damn you and your lies.
So I was discharged and then spent the evening throwing up mince pies into a plastic bag in my wardrobe. Am I really choosing this? Surely recovery would be better than this moment right now. I really want to be free, I know what I have to do, but I honestly don’t know if it’s possible for me, or I want it enough.
I feel like I don’t know which voice is mine anymore, so `i figured I might as well throw them all out to the universe in an effort to quieten my mind, and perhaps someone else might read this someday and think, I was there too, it’s good that we’re not alone.
But tonight, I am alone, alone with my bags of vomit, my blood shot eyes and my stinking breath. There is nothing to be proud of about bulimia.