diagnosis: not fitting in very well in the land of the living

I'm laying in bed, staring at the ceiling. Normally my eyelids drag down like anchors at night, but lately it's felt like there are springs in my eyes instead. I try to close them, and they pop back open, like a mocking jack-in-the-box. 

So I stare at the ceiling. Until I toss and turn and end up on my side, staring at my nightstand. Next I'm on my other side, staring at the wall over the Mr.'s back. He's breathing deeply. I try to breathe with him. I try to count. I try to close my eyes again.

I stare at the wall.

Let's go back.

Sunday. My Monday appointment was rattling around in my head, making me feel sick. So I crawled back into bed only a couple hours after getting out of it, and I slept.

I slept and slept and slept.

I slept all day long. The Mr. napped with me for a bit, but eventually he got up and did laundry and tidied up the house. And I just slept. And it was so wonderful. I got up for a little while. We watched some tv. Then I went back to bed and slept some more.

Monday I weighed in at 108.4 lbs again. 

I reset the scale. I moved it around. The numbers didn't change. 108.4 lbs. I thought about smashing it into the wall. Like a crazy person.

I tried on a hundred different outfits, trying to find the lightest one possible. Just in case they weighed me again. I landed on a thin t-shirt and a light, airy skirt. I was going to freeze, I knew that. But at least those clothes didn't add much weight to the scale. 

I took the stairs up to the second floor, pretending that this wasn't actually happening. I checked in, and then sat in the waiting room, paging through a journal that patients write in. Most of them were all about how this program has changed their lives, how they're getting better, how there's hope. But there were several places whited out with neat black writing over top: "Reminder: any negative or triggering thoughts will be removed." 

I decided to save them some whiteout and not write down any of my thoughts.

The waiting room was filling up with people. Some were so skinny, I wanted to hide under my chair. Eventually they all filed into a big room where the delicious scent of food was escaping. My empty stomach growled. I guzzled half my water bottle to shut it up.

Finally my therapist appeared. We went back to her office, where I curled up in the sun on a couch. I love her office. There's blankets you can wrap up in, and it's always so warm. I know they do that on purpose. I was actually comfortable, but my poor therapist was sweating. 

So we sat. And the appointment began.

The tests I had taken were compared to several different polls of people. One group was people without eating disorders. One group was mixed with people with eating disorders and people without. One group was only people with eating disorders. 

My results were pretty clear. I definitely have an eating disorder. 

I wasn't surprised, but at the same time, it was kind of sobering to see it there in all the graphs. 

I was surprised though when she compared my answers to people with eating disorders. Apparently many of my answers were actually elevated. Which means, I have a more negative reaction to some things than the average person with an eating disorder. I wasn't expecting that. 

Then the personality test. She pulled it out, and I couldn't help it. I just started laughing. She asked if I'd taken it before, so I told her the story. About how I'd taken it in the hospital and it'd come back invalid. She grinned and showed me the papers in her hands. 

No invalid this time! I guess I do have a personality! 

The results of that test were pretty sobering as well. In summary, as my therapist put it, it's pretty clear I'm having "a shitty time." In every category my answers were well over the line of "average people." Some were right up against the "ceiling," which is as high as you can possibly go. Suicide ideation was one of those. Surprise surprise. Her diagnosis was that I have severe depression, which is funny since the hospital diagnosed me with Dysthymia, which is a longer occurring, more mild form of depression. I never really agreed with that diagnosis, so seeing these results was almost relieving. 

As for the eating disorder, she said I am right "on the cusp" of Anorexia, but because I have compulsive exercise behaviors, that lands me in the Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified pool.

I've done some reading, and I think that diagnosis was also influenced by the fact that I still have regular menstrual cycles and am within a "healthy" weight for my size. 

Here is how my brain has processed this information:

You failed. 

You're a shitty, weak, pathetic person. You're not strong enough to be anorexic. I told you so. You just had to keep stuffing your face with food, didn't you? 

I don't know why getting the official diagnosis of Anorexic is like winning the lottery or being crowned Miss America. It just is. And I failed.

My results qualified me for an intensive outpatient program where you go in 3-4 times a week for three hours each time. However, I will be starting DBT at the ED treatment center, and since I've never had any sort of treatment before, my therapist thought that would be really overwhelming. I agree. So instead I'm starting out with a therapist and a dietitian once a week (I think?) and DBT twice a week.

I didn't know that the ED treatment center offered DBT, and I readily agreed to do it there instead of the other counseling center I'd been planning to go to. I think it's the best choice. I hate having to explain my issues with food to people who aren't used to dealing with eating disorders. So often they just don't get it. And fuck, I don't know how to make them understand. I'm self aware. I know it's fucked up, but I don't want to stop. I can't stop. You try explaining that.

So I went home with all these facts and numbers and words whirling around in my head. And I was starving so I ate. I ate celery. Then I ate a spoonful of peanut butter. I nibbled on some cheese. I made smartpop popcorn. I ate some of those stupid addicting candy corn pumpkins. Then I felt sick. I promised myself I wouldn't eat dinner. Then I ate an apple with more peanut butter. 

Sickening.

So then we're back at the beginning. The part where I laid miserably awake in bed for nearly the entire night. 

I weighed in this morning at 110 lbs again.

Fuck.

Everyone keeps telling me that I'm strong and brave and they're so proud. And I force a smile, but inwardly it feels like a lie. 

I don't want help. I just want to be skinny. I just have to be skinny.