There's no easy way to write this, no way to make it less awkward and embarrassing (and yes, even shameful) for me, so I'm going to plunge on ahead and get it over with.
I've relapsed. Big time.
My parents are coming on Friday to move me back to that mitten state in the Midwest, though I probably won't leave DC until Monday.
This relapse struck hard and fast and caught me completely off guard. Things really just started deteriorating in the past 6 weeks--just when I got the boot off and didn't have my handy (or footy) excuse for eating properly and staying off my feet--and by the time I realized the waters of anorexia were reaching up to grab me, it was too late. I was already soaked.
Events would have eventually come to light. The weight loss is blatantly obvious- to others, of course, not to me. I see the same scrubby redhead that I usually see. But during my therapy session last night, I got overwhelmed with guilt and grief and confusing and 'fessed up. I am profoundly grateful I have the best therapist in the world (no exaggeration), that my parents are willing to feed me again, after I ruined things, again. I am grateful I have so many people cheering for me, like Laura and others who read my blog.
But right now, I'm only feeling this gratitude in my head. My heart is full of shame and anger and resentment at Life, The Universe, and Everything and also, you know, me. I do understand that my eating disorder isn't my fault, but I also feel I should have known better. I was not so arrogant as to think that I could never relapse, that this couldn't happen to me. I knew. I knew, perhaps, too well. In the end, though, that's neither here nor there. I can't go back in time. I can't wave a magic wand and make this relapse go away as if it had never happened. Nor should I. I'm pretty much the opposite of a fatalist- I don't usually believe that "things happen for a reason." But I am an advocate of learning as much as you can from your life experiences.
I'm not going to waste energy that I don't have right now trying to understand what went wrong. I get the basics for now, and that's enough. I got really depressed and I let my defenses down. I became too depressed and too defeated-feeling to push myself to eat what I needed to, and so the passive restricting started. I wasn't seeking to lose weight. I wasn't trying to fuck myself and my life over one more time for old times' sake. Something threw my brain into anorexic mode, full steam ahead, and that was the end of that.
So I'm going home, back to the magic plate and refeeding and all of the crap I thought I had washed my hands of. I will wash my hands of them again. It will take time, lots of time, and patience and food and love. I have to believe that, however improbable it may seem to my malnourished brain at the moment.
But my blog isn't going anywhere. It's been my sanity lifeline.