(This is in reply to what I would call an "open letter" a friend from treatment posted on their own blog. Didn't use my name -- thanks -- but I got the message loud and clear.)
You care about me.
And I don't know why, but I do know you're right about what I'm doing to myself and I'm sorry that I'm scaring you.
Of course, my eating disorder doesn't think you're right. My eating disorder read that and thought, "she hasn't seen you. She doesn't know if you look disgusting or not. She's over-exaggerating. She's overdramatizing. She doesn't know your situation." But that's bullshit. You do know my situation. Because you have an eating disorder. And to that, my own eating disorder says, "EXACTLY! So what gives her the right to tell you to stop doing anything when she's still struggling and doesn't seem to care?" It's the same right I have to tell you I wish you would see yourself for the amazing, beautiful person you are -- no more numbing yourself with alcohol, drugs, bulimia, or self-mutilation. Maybe I don't exercise that right enough because I see the futility in all of it. But I can relate to your pain, because I experience it through watching you suffer. And it makes me wonder why we can't pull ourselves out of our own stupidity.
I want to stop. I want to live my life. I want to take it back. I want to experience joy again. I want to have the energy to laugh at the jokes on "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia." I want to walk by a plate of brownies, think, "that looks good," and eat one without another thought. Hell, I want to walk by a fucking tray of grapes, tear off a little branch, and eat that without pulling out a measuring cup first. Put my hand into a bag of chips and not even THINK about counting how many I've just pulled out. Put the chips into my mouth and not freak out about how many calories, carbs, milligrams of sodium I've just consumed. Chew them, swallow them, and not panic as I try to figure out how the hell I'm supposed to compensate for that. I want back the lust I had for this one guy, before malnutrition stripped me of any and all libido. I want to want sex. I want to look the cover of my Sherlock Holmes DVD and think, "oh, the things I would do to those two men..." You get the point.
And at the same time... I can't stop. There's a number, and now it's in my head, it's all I think about, and until I get to that number turning around and going back up again feels like a fate worse than failure. It's a feeling of futility. Wasted effort. "All those months of pain and agony for nothing. All that not to get to X pounds. Miserable, horrible failure." And then some time might pass, and I'll be so consumed by the guilt of not attaining this sick, twisted goal weight that I'll do it all over again. And again. And again. And then die.
And I don't know why I'm writing this in a blog entry, as opposed to a private message to you, aside from the fact that I don't want you to feel compelled to respond. I just want you to know, I hear you. And while the easiest thing in the world would be for me to be angry, it's also the furthest thing from my mind right now. I'm so touched that you care so much, I really do care just as much for you, and I'm so sorry for the way things are for both of us now.
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