of assessments and little sisters

It's done.

My initial assessment at the ED treatment center.

I was so anxious getting ready this morning that I thought I was going to throw up. Which only made me more anxious.

I ended up asking the Mr. to drive me there because I was a wreck.

It was a nice place. Carefully decorated to be calming, welcoming. Everyone was very nice. I was the skinniest person in the room, until a tall, rail thin girl walked confidently in. I shrunk into my chair.

My therapist had a few extra pounds on her. I know that sounds horribly mean, but I notice these things in a very removed way. I did not look at her in disgust and think, Gross. She is so fat! Not at all. The only selfish thing I thought was that I was glad I was skinnier than her. By a lot.

The hour long session went ok. She had a lot of questions through the interview. Thankfully many I could answer with a simple yes or no. Like, have you ever binged? Do you ever use laxatives? Some required more detail. Often I had to rate things from 1 to 10.

I thought of Bill and pictured him rolling his eyes.

The hardest questions were when she asked me how I was feeling. I explained a little about the medication and how I didn't really know. I think I also tend to retreat to an emotionless place when talking about these things as a defense mechanism. I did that in the hospital before they gave me any pills. It's like my brain decides that if we're going to have to talk about (insert traumatic thing here), we're not going to feel anything.

She weighed me. With my clothes on I was 111.8 lbs. Which was a little hard. I know it's just because I was wearing my clothes, but still. I really wanted that scale to say 110, like mine at home did this morning.

Then there were tests. Five paper tests. One computer test. And guess what?

The computer test was the EXACT test I took in the hospital. You know, the one that I failed? My personality test that somehow came back invalid? I almost laughed out loud when I saw the first question. Thankfully this one was computerized and 300 questions shorter.

Although I am very curious to see if I pass this one this time. I'm not sure what I'll do if I get an invalid twice in a row. Probably go to coffee with Bill and tell him so he can laugh and make me feel better.

All in all, it was ok. Most of what I talked about, I've been talking about, so it wasn't so hard to get the words out. I think the appointment where they tell me their recommendations will be much harder.

I also have to go back next week to get an EKG reading and a blood test done.

After my appointment, I was so relieved it was over.

And then I was hungry.

Hungry for hamburgers and french fries and bread and pasta.

I decided to be careful. To compromise. I could make a grilled cheese sandwich. I went to the grocery store and bought whole wheat bread and the lowest calorie cheese I could find. I drove home. I put the grocery bags on the table. And then I panicked.

What was I thinking? I can't eat a sandwich. I can't eat bread!

I made some smartpop popcorn instead.

Then I had to tackle the text message I had gotten from my little sister last night.

I didn't see it until late. It said:

"I want to look like you. I feel so fat and ugly next to you."

My heart broke. I felt sick. Anxiety choked me. I couldn't respond to it last night. I was already close to panic about my appointment.

So I sent her an email this afternoon. I poured my heart out to her. I told her how brave and strong she is. I told her that I am fucked up, and that there's nothing glamorous about it. That most of it was misery. That I couldn't even be happy about losing weight because I just wanted to lose more and more. I told her that our mother is sick. That she cannot listen to her. I told her she is beautiful. Because she is. My beautiful little sister. It kills me that she sent me that text. I am not a role model. I am a disaster.

Maybe I am getting help, but I still don't want to let go of this. I can work on my depression. On my anxiety. But my relationship with food is much more complicated. I hate it. I love it. I want to be sick. I want to be so thin that people wonder if I'm deathly ill. I am terrified of changing my eating habits. I am terrified of gaining weight.

So I don't know what I'll do when these therapists start asking me to change.