Me: I may not have read —

Dad: Read history?

Me: No, I was going to say, I may not have read as many books as you, but…

——

Cue me feeling like my dad thinks I’m stupid. I told him that’s what I thought, and he apologized and said he didn’t mean it that way, but it still really hurts. So now he’s off getting coffee with my sister, and I’m sitting in the dark on the floor in my room, crying and fighting off urges.

——

Note to self: Never ever ever mention Israel or Palestine to your dad. You already knew this. Why the fuck did you do it anyway? NEVER DO IT, EVER AGAIN. It never ends well.

I’m still around. I haven’t been posting because it hurts to talk, hurts to reach out, hurts to get support.

I don’t know if anyone will even read this, but I kind of hope not.

I don’t know what to say.

I got out of residential treatment in September, and just finished twelve weeks of IOP.

I’m trying harder to recover than I did the last time I got out of residential treatment, but I’ve still been managing to lose weight, hide food, and restrict this entire time. I’ve been doing much better on that lately, though. I was self-harming for a while, but I haven’t done so in several weeks now. Things are far from perfect, but I’ve been so so so so much worse.

I’m hiding in my room a lot, and isolating, and I can’t even return emails or facebook messages. So along with that comes the not-being-on-here thing.

But I am alive.

I found this old document on my computer. I apparently wrote it on December 22, 2009. I don’t fully believe it now, but I hope to some day. Until then, I think that reading this over and over will motivate me to recover. I’ve copied it into my journal so that I can read it while I’m in treatment.

“the way i see it, there are two choices:

“one:

“surrender to misery and mental illness. allow my depression and my ED to consume me, and continue on in this path until i this kills me or until i kill myself. never even try to live up to my potential, and leave only sadness and desolation in my path. allow this world to completely destroy me and everything i believe in and love.

“two:

“stand up and fight. fight for my life, for my sanity, for my health, for my art, for my own voice, for everything i love, and for everyone i love. don’t just live to fight another day, but fight to live another day. fight for my continued survival.

“today, i’m going with option two. i don’t expect it to be easy, choosing the second option. i think it’s going to be a matter of continually choosing to make decisions that will lead me toward option two. i think it’s going to be worth it, though.”

This evening, I’ll be leaving the hospital, — finally, after over one and a half months here — getting on a plane with my mom, and flying to the state where my old treatment center is located. Tomorrow morning, I’ll be getting up early and checking myself in there. Finally. Thank you, God. Thank you. There have been so many times when I never thought I’d see this day… and yet here it is. I’m so excited.

I’m also really nervous. As much as I hate the program here, I’m getting used to it, and I’m getting used to being able to “get away with” stuff (like exercising or hiding food). I don’t think I’ll be able to do that over there. And I’m nervous because my old program won’t let me eat the same foods over and over, like the hospital does, and because they’re more strict on food rituals and food variety. And I’m nervous because I’ll probably be sitting in the day room all day (that is, if I’m lucky, and don’t wind up on bed rest again) and I’ll most likely have a roommate, both of which mean it’ll be much much harder to exercise. I’m also nervous because my family has visited me every day here, and they won’t be able to once I transfer. But mostly, I’m nervous because I’m afraid I’ve gained too much here. I wanted to check into the treatment center at the same weight as I was last time, or, preferably, at a lower weight. But I don’t think that’ll happen now.

So, I’ll be packing and discharging today. My nutritionist is sending me off with tons of Ensure for the road (or sky, rather). You better believe I’m gonna try getting out of them.

Hopefully, being in a treatment center that focuses more on therapy and mental recovery will help me to find the motivation and the desire I need to recover.

I won’t have computer access once I get to the treatment center, so don’t worry if I don’t post any more. I haven’t really dropped off the face of the Earth.

Take care of yourselves. You are all lovely wonderful amazing people, and you deserve recovery just as much as anyone else does. <3

This is the most manipulating and lying and sneaking around I’ve ever done in treatment. Looking up nutrition facts and calorie counts online. Hiding food. Exercising in the bathroom. Lying when confronted about it. Purging. Self-harming. Lying about self-harming and urges to self-harm. Lying about feeling suicidal. Lying about urges to run away from the hospital.

I’m afraid. The first time I was in treatment, I didn’t think it was possible for me to get away with this much… but now that I’m learning how much I can get away with here, I worry that I won’t be able to stop. And I worry because I don’t want to stop, which means I probably won’t stop on my own… and so far, no one’s stopped me.

I feel completely insane. I feel trapped here. So trapped that sometimes, I just want to die. It’s normal, right? To want to die rather than have your life controlled by others? “Live free or die,” right? My brain keeps replaying this scenario where I run away. Pack my backpack with my sketchbook and markers and sneak out of the hospital. Live on the streets. My parents can’t get medical guardianship if they can’t find me, right?

See, it’s completely insane.