I mentioned my IBS is flaring up again. This is not helped by my bulimia flaring up this week too. In what was supposed to be my final therapy session, I burst into tears and cried about how I wanted to lose weight, how binging was still ruining my life and how my eating disorder seemed like the only solution and escape. I cried because I missed it. I cried even more because I hate that I miss it.
There is a part of me that I put in a little box that day I broke down in Marks and Spencers. The part of me that loves being malnourished, that loves being in control, that loves how long I can survive the cold. I put her away because I know I shouldn’t listen. I hate her. Or at least I tell myself I do.
I feel like I’m facing a fork in the road in terms of recovery. Today I asked what was the point? And really what is the point in trying when the only time I felt at ease all week was after having made myself sick?
The best I can come up with it this. I want kids, I love kids and I want to have a family. With an ED, I either can’t have babies at all or if my body somehow survives pregnancy, my children are heavily predisposed to developing an eating disorder themselves.
I don’t want to be a hypocrite. I can’t preach good health in my job (or on my blog) if I’m having a mental breakdown in the corner.
And last but not least, I don’t want T to see crazy ED me. She’s not cool.