The Story So Far pt2

So. I’m getting worse.

I think I might merit an increase in dosage pretty fucking soon. As I’m writing this retrospectively, I can say that they DID in fact increase my Prozac again, I can ALSO clarify that my doctor doesn’t expect it to help me anymore. Apparently, she doesn’t think there’s anything more she can do for me.

I reckon that’s hilarious and concerning in equal measure.

Recently, I freaked out pretty hard. Let’s call it a Major Depressive Episode. It sounds marginally better than a Psychotic Break, doesn’t it?

There was a day; my self-loathing might have been simmering at a slightly higher level than usual, gently coming to boil in the evening, at which point I started uncontrollably flinching away whenever my boyfriend tried to touch my skin. Oh, I felt so dirty. So disgusting. So WRONG. Right then, I illustrated everything that was wrong with the world, I was a scab on the face of the earth, and GOD I have never wanted so badly to take myself from it. I didn’t want to be touched. I cowered in the corner trying to cover myself, make myself smaller. I was TAINTING my very surroundings, dirtying my boyfriend by mere proximity.

I was incoherent with confusion, panic and self loathing.

Then came the scratching.

So hard it left marks on my arms.

Apparently I was screaming about ‘getting it all off’, ‘ripping it all away’

I’m not certain what I wanted, but I had never been surer in my life that ripping myself apart was the way to get it.

For nearly two hours – I was told later – I squirmed and scratched and screamed, forcing myself further and further into the corner, making a concentrated effort at peeling my flesh off my arms. I could barely even hear my boyfriend trying to stop me over my own now hoarse voice.

…

Eventually, my mania ran out. I sat silently crying, staring vacantly at the welts on the backs of my hands.

I don’t remember very much of what happened.

Dissociative.

Compartmentalised?

Crazy?

Whatever.

Onto marginally more sane things; I have developed – under MUCH duress, might I add- Cheat Day rules.

URGH, I KNOW, how nauseatingly LAX!

I don’t want any part of Cheat Days. I do not NEED Cheat Days. Cheat Days are for the WEAK. ‘Cheat Days’ are not even deserving of the capitals I am giving them.

But apparently, I NEED them, everyone I know has an opinion; *mocking whining voice* I NEED them to REWARD myself. I NEED to learn to TREAT myself. Obviously I NEED to turn my back on all of my restricting and all of my purging and eat whatever I want for a day. As a REWARD.

Like watching those numbers creep down on the scales isn’t REWARD enough. Like feeling my clothes hang off me, feeling my collarbones, my hipbones, my RIBS more prominently day by day isn’t REWARD ENOUGH.

They HAVE to be fucking kidding. Getting thinner is ALL I need.

Unfortunately, however, due to necessity, I have disdainfully developed my OWN version of what constitutes a Cheat Day. I have certain RULES, and as with all of my food related rules; they will be followed to the LETTER. What I do NOT have is a day where ‘the diet doesn’t matter’. The disorder ALWAYS FUCKING MATTERS.

1. Cheat days will only occur out of necessity*, NOT out of desire.
2. On my Cheat Days, I will restrict as much as I possibly can without drawing attention to myself
3. I will eat ‘normally’ only when there are witnesses.
4. Due to the presence of these witnesses, I will only be able to purge once – without my rinsing processes – and thus I must aim to purge as quickly and as effectively as possible.
5. I will have a collection of viable reasons for my somewhat extended – but actually greatly reduced – time spent in the toilet.

* Reasons so far include; when visiting my parents, while eating in public/at a restaurant, while members of the family/friends/acquaintances unaware of my disorder are present.

Recently, I was forced to implement these Cheat Day Rules for TWO consecutive days -some friends, unaware of my condition, stayed over. They marvelled and praised me for my weight loss, but nevertheless proceeded to encourage me to ‘be bad’ and eat what I ‘wanted’. For two days of meals and infuriatingly frequent snacks, I was unable to properly purge and wash my insides out.

I felt dirty.

Coming up soon, part 3; Oops, low Potassium! Time at the Hospital and other such tales.