in which I talk more

I had my first therapy appointment today.

I'm starting a special kind of therapy called Dialectical Behavior Therapy. My psychiatrist in the hospital strongly recommended it.

Rabbit trail. This whole recommendation started off on the wrong foot because in my overwhelmed state, I thought he said "Diabolical Behavior Therapy."

And was immediately offended.

But no. Dialectical. And I have to admit, after researching it a little and then speaking with the therapist today, it sounds like exactly what I need. Not what I want, necessarily, but what I need.

Because there is a part of me that doesn't want to change. As fucked up as that is.

If you want to read about it, you can do so here.

My therapist was really nice. Her name is Sue. She was pretty easy to talk to, which was a relief.

At one point I mentioned something I did as being dumb, and she stopped me and gave me a little talk about negative self-talk.

Oh, Sue. If only you could hear the horrible things I say to myself every second of every day.

In other news, I ate like (what I would consider) a normal person today.

I think I'm in that weird oasis in the desert that is an eating disorder. Sometimes it lasts an hour. Sometimes it lasts a day. Sometimes a week. It's that time where you eat, and you tell yourself, no, this is ok. And maybe your brain is just tired. On hiatus. Given up. But it's like, sure, whatever. And so you eat.

But it always turns out to be a mirage.

And the downhill slope is steep.

They are going to laugh at me at the treatment center. I just know it.

Did you see that girl? She ate a salad for lunch and an apple and celery with peanut butter for dinner! And chocolate! She ate chocolate! And she thinks she has an eating disorder!

I see my mother in two days.

I'm not skinny enough.

Not skinny enough for treatment.

Not skinny enough to be happy.

Not skinny enough to be able to eat.

Not skinny enough to see my mother.

What is skinny enough?

I don't know.