I was hardly through the door of her office before C had pointed out to me how pale and unwell I looked. Watching me closely as I sat down she waited until I’d positioned myself to ask what was happening. As I filled her in I try my hardest not to cry. I tell her how I’m struggling. How ED is too strong. How I can’t do this on my own but at the same time want to tell her to fuck right off. I told her I don’t need her any more. Then told her I do. We had a talk about why things are so tough. We looked at what I need to do between now and Monday (when I see her next) to try and get some control back. Eating, of course, being top of the list. She doesn’t care what. Or even how much. As long as it’s SOMETHING. Has to be better than how I’ve been going over the last 7-8 weeks. I’m furious with myself that now, instead of waiting until I finish prac and trying to get it together between now and then, before considering stepping up treatment to a day treatment program we’re now waiting until next week when my other psychologist comes back. Two weeks is all I’ve got to get some control back and try to get this shit under control. To try and pull back from ED and get back to where I was a few weeks ago. I feel so pathetic that it’s reached the stage where I’m being treated like a baby. Where my team are making decisions for me and taking away my options. I hate that ED is winning right now.
So now, I embark on the quest to get my shit together within the next two weeks and avoid day program cause I really don’t want to miss another prac because I fell apart. I don’t want to fuck up another semester of uni and put my degree off even longer. I feel like such a failure.