Too Strong For Too Long.

******TRIGGER WARNING******

I used to worry about receiving letters in the post because they’re almost always referring to my inability to manage my life; overdrawn in this account, owing on that account, you still haven’t paid your phone bill, blah, blah, blah. I’m not sure I even worry about that stuff anymore; I’ve just sort of accepted that’s the way it is. Now, I get letters telling me to make doctor’s appointments, to visit the hospital for an endoscopy, to visit a therapist and while we’re at it, let’s get you to visit some other clinician just for good measure. The simple truth is that I am absolutely lousy at managing my own life and looking after myself. I think there are some people who would argue against this because I’m still alive and that should be proof enough that I am doing quite alright at life but I’m inclined to disagree.

The doctor is sending me to the hospital for an urgent endoscopy. Sometimes, when the emotions become too much and I have to get rid of things I try to be sick whether I’ve eaten enough or not. Sometimes, it’s not even that I’ve binged but I feel entirely worthless so I make myself sick anyway, only there’s nothing to come up. Sometimes blood comes up and it’s fresh but I’d just been ignoring it because that seemed to be easier. I didn’t want to admit to myself that things had become worse and I didn’t want to admit it to my doctor; every time I see her, it’s like we both realise I’m slipping further and further while trying to maintain some sense of normality for the outside world. I wonder if she worries about me ending up in hospital as much as I do. Today was no exception; concern was etched on her face as plainly as the scars on my arm. I should have been more worried myself. I should have taken it as a sign to stay together. I failed.

My fight and flight response is completely erratic right now. I recognised the threat and perceived it to be just as damaging as taking a knife to my skin; my constant throwing up has maybe caused a tear somewhere and that would explain the blood. I understand that threat and the fear of having an endoscopy is great, most definitely not something I would like to experience at all and I can only imagine how badly my panic will hit the roof. I fear it will never stop. I know the procedure and it looks scary. Considering the amount of times I’ve made myself sick, you’d think the idea of having a camera down my throat wouldn’t be that scary but I can just imagine now how panicked I will be and I’ll most likely choke. Maybe I’ll choke to death. Who knows?

 I should have eaten my food and taken my tablets straight away. I got scared, really scared. In trying to avoid the rising fear and panic in my head, I did exactly what I wasn’t supposed to. I made myself sick. I took my water into the bathroom. I was in there for over half an hour and it was far from pleasant. Why did I do this? I don’t understand it? I don’t want this at all. What’s wrong with me? I didn’t just drink the water to ready myself, to give my stomach some more incentive to let the food freely flow back up. I didn’t just clench my stomach muscles. I didn’t just put my fingers down my throat and push. I kept pushing. Methodically, I pushed and pushed. *Drink, clench, fingers in throat, clench, push, choke*. This repeated. Sometimes when I’m making myself sick, I get so frustrated that nothing is coming back up that I just abandon the quest. Today scared me though. I can remember my thoughts and the conversation that happened, the argument that took place but whether it was between Me and The Monster, I don’t know. Maybe it was just Me arguing with Me. I don’t know which is more frightening, which saddens me more, which threatens my existence. If I’m fighting myself then I don’t see how I can win.

“There’s nothing there.”

“So, try harder.”

“Why?”

“That’s just how it works.”

“But I can’t bring anything up.”

“You can if you push. Just keep pushing.”

“Well, what if I’m too tired? What if I don’t have the energy to push anymore? What if I just want to give up?”

“Then you’re even failing at having an eating disorder. Are you actually being sick? Or are you pretending? Is this a problem? Do you hate the way you look? Do you hate that you’re incredibly fat and disgusting? Did you come in here to actually be sick or to just play at being sick? You can’t play at having an eating disorder”

He’s right. So I pushed and pushed. Sure enough, if you keep pushing something it will always happen, for good or bad. Maybe it would be okay if I could rationalise it to think that I’m getting rid of the bad parts of me but I’m not. I’m still full of hatred and anger. I’m still full of the person that other people walk away from. I’m still full of the ‘me’ that I hate. Still full of the ‘me’, who pushes and pushes until people leave and then she just moans and moans. I hear myself crying all the time, “feel sorry for me, and help me, please!”

Why? Why should anybody help? It’s my fault I’m being sick. I’m making myself sick. That’s not normal. It’s disgusting. How could anybody respect this?

I just don’t understand myself anymore. I can’t even find the words to describe my own stupidity. My positivity jar says that I’m a loyal friend and I pride myself on that, I really do but how can I be a loyal friend if I’m not alive anymore? I’m scared that I’ll just keep pushing myself until I don’t exist anymore. Maybe I can save myself before that happens. I don’t want to be a friend who breaks promises and can’t save other people if she’s already dead.