What I'm Missing

I HATE DOING THIS.

I want to scream, cry, bang my head against a wall, throw things, yell at people who are not even remotely at fault.

Two lorazepam a day, that's how I'm getting through this. Barely.

My body image is shit. It's been ages since I've actually thought I looked legitimately *fat* in something, and now I find it happening.

I'm working at an office for the next few weeks. That means a dress code. My eating disorder hates dress codes, because it has its own dress code, which changes daily (per body image rating) and typically conflicts with other dress codes. Anything that conflicts with the eating disorder's given dress code does so because the ED dress code is designed to keep me from looking fat. Therefore, if it's not ED-approved, it makes me look fat.

Oh my God.

I miss being alone and able to not eat in peace. I can't believe I have to do this for three more weeks. Fuck trying to maintain in England. I feel like a damn whale. I mean, yes, I still have been keeping my calories low, but the mirror evidently does not know that. I do all my body checks every day and nothing's changed. But I feel I look different. Fat now. Actually fat. Noticeably heavier than when I arrived.

I get so fucking short with everybody. Everybody pisses me off. It doesn't help that I hate my damn job. It's not quite Motherfucking Courage revisited, but it's a similarly miserable situation. I have a bloody desk job and nothing to do for 7 hours but monotonous computational activities and feel my ass engorging by the second.

I'm supposed to be enjoying my summer vacation. Every day I want to cry because if I can't settle down around food, I should at LEAST be able to wear the cute clothes I want (yes, my ED says it's okay to wear the current trends as long as it shows that bone/covers that lack of bone) and have fun and laugh and shop with my mom. But I can't do that either. And that makes me more anxious, and more distorted toward food/body/weight, and brattier/shorter tempered by the minute. Does nobody fucking understand that, aside from these three weeks, I HAVE no fucking vacation? I mean, don't get me wrong, I really am excited for Oxford, but that's not vacation. That's work. I want SOME vacation. That's what I do. I work and work and work and don't stop and then I need like a month of down-time where I get to do my own pet projects and then I start working again. Lather, rinse, repeat. That's a year. Now I don't get my month of down-time because I'm trying to make money so I don't feel like a total financial drain on my family. Instead, I'm no fun to any of them. I'm not the daughter they were looking forward to seeing. I'm a grouchy, overworked, brooding, isolative bitch. I was that former daughter for the first three days, before I started the desk job of doom. Not so much anymore. I don't know if I'm making enough money to compensate for the emotional burden I am to them. We'll see.

This lorazepam isn't doing jack shit and it should be kicking in by now. It's my second dose of the night, plus half a beer. I don't feel drunk. I don't feel relaxed. And no, I'm not some fucking idiot that's going to have another beer or pill to see how that works out. I'll just suffer through the rest of this. I deserve it.

I wish I could go to rehab.

I wish I wanted to go to rehab.

I wish I could afford to go to rehab.

I wish my school would force me to go to rehab.

If I wanted to get better, I would go to Monte Nido. My miraculous dietitian used to work there and it's kind of perfect for me. Long-term, loads of aftercare and step-down options, great location, very near my life, their philosophy with regards to therapy, causality, and nutrition is in line with mine, there are a few holistic and woo-woo treatments but not so many that it's too hippie, they take a small group of women at a time, and while they don't take weight gain entirely at the patient's pace, they'll go slow if they think that's the most effective way to have the patient adjust and work through it (that's my method). They're also very individualized with goal weights.

Why am I talking about Monte Nido? It's okay; I can fantasize about it. I'll allow it. It's not the same thing as going. Hell, I'd never go to Monte Nido. I'd never go to rehab period; but if I were forced there, we're talking Rader or Casa Palmera or some easy ass fucking shit where I can get away with murder.

Sometimes I do think about this stuff. It's good to be prepared. Good to know what's out there. Good to know what I'm not missing.