I am not prepared

I woke up to a cold white world this morning.

The first snow.

My breath puffed little white bursts of life into the air as I scraped the ice off my windshield. All morning long I've watched the snow drip, drip, drip off the trees outside my window. The sun is bravely shining. Everyone says the same thing. "This snow won't last."

It will come back, though. It's November. Winter is just around the corner.

I thought I would feel more prepared. 

...

I meet my therapist on a Monday night after work. Her name is Molly. She smiles easily. I am wary, curled up on her couch as though she is dangerous. Eventually her relaxed manner coaxes me to stop picking anxiously at my water bottle. 

By the time I leave, I'm surprised to realize that I like her. 

I drive home in the dark, and my surprise turns heavy. This is it, isn't it? I have still been pretending that this isn't happening. That I'm not going into treatment. 

The Mr. has a show with the band. He packs up and leaves. I pace around the house, trying to keep myself calm. But I'm not calm. I'm panicking. I'm furious. I'm terrified.

I think about sharp things, and where I would look to find them.

Cuts will leave marks I can't explain. I rationalize. Bruises will be easier to hide.

I methodically roll up my sleeve and then smash my forearms into the door frame of my closet over and over. The pain makes my eyes smart, but the pressure in my chest becomes a little more manageable. 

I finally step back and pull my sleeves down over my throbbing arms. Then I get ready for the show.

....

Tuesday finds me shivering on the examination table at the treatment center's doctor office again. 

I hadn't slept much the night before. Or really at all. The show was late. The Mr. found out about the bruises on my arms. He wanted to talk about it. He wanted to know why. 

I don't know why.

I ate a handful of almonds earlier. They were the first thing I'd eaten since Sunday. I meant to eat some celery too, but I just couldn't. 

I'm so exhausted. My eyes keep closing. Maybe I can just lay back on the examination table and sleep while I wait...

The doctor comes in and smiles. She scans me up and down with her sharp eyes. "How are you feeling?" 

"Awful." I admit.

She tells me my bloodwork came back fine. I expected that. She did too. "That doesn't influence how we are going forward though." She reminds me. I nod wearily, trying to focus.

She listens to my heart, my lungs. She is saying something about being concerned. She's concerned by my weight loss. I perk up a little. "What is my weight?" I ask curiously. The nurse who takes it is not allowed to tell us. She writes it on our chart and hides it under a yellow post-it note. 

"109 lbs." She tells me gravely. 

I try to keep my face neutral, but I'm angry. I weighed 107.0 lbs this morning. A record low.

She looks straight through me in that uncanny way of hers. "Do you weigh yourself every day?" She asks.

"Yes." I admit.

"What has it been lately?" 

"108, 107..." I mumble. 

She gives me her serious face. "That's a significant weight loss. You're obviously malnourished."

She goes on, but I'm stuck on that word. Malnourished? 

I resist the urge to look around the room for this malnourished person she's talking about. It can't be me. Obviously. I am no where near malnourished. All I have to do is look in the mirror to know that. But besides that, I've done my research. My BMI is 19 even. It would have to drop to under 18.5 in order to be considered "underweight." For my size, that's 104 lbs. 

I want to be 104 lbs. 

I try to focus again. She's saying things about how I might need a more intensive program. I feel a flutter of panic. I tell her I'm starting DBT. The worry stays in her eyes, but she slowly nods. She asks if there will be meals served in DBT. I don't know, but the thought of it makes me feel panicky. 

"I think there is." She says. "That's good. You need some nutrition."

Fuck.

I drive home in a mixture of fury and panic. I don't need an intensive program. I can't do an intensive program. I have to go to work to make money so we can pay our bills (including the hospital bill which finally came in at $7,000) and our mortgage and our car payments so we can keep our cars and our house and not lose everything and be kicked out onto the street where I'll have to watch our three cats starve and then we'll all die.

I go to the grocery store. I buy food. Good food. Healthy food. I shove it in the cart with a fierce, stubborn determination. I don't need people fucking feeding me. I can feed myself. I'm fine.

I make my poor sick Mr. some experimental homemade chicken noodle soup. I make a version for me using quinoa instead of noodles. I thought I could do noodles, but as soon as I got in the car, I freaked out. No. I can't do noodles. But that's fine. I don't need noodles. People can not eat noodles and be normal!

The chicken noodle soup turns out spicy and flavorful with shredded rotisserie chicken, sweet potatoes, broccoli, onions, garlic, carrots, celery, and those nooodles. My soup turns out more like a curry with lots of mushrooms, broccoli, sweet potato, onion, garlic, a little chicken, and the safer dangerous quinoa. 

The Mr. had requested bread to go with his soup, so I bought him a french loaf. I wasn't planning on eating any of it, but suddenly I did. I ate one small piece. Then I eat another. I eat a whole bowl of my soup. It is delicious. 

Then I feel full. I feel panicky. I hate myself. I want to get on the treadmill. I want to slam my arms into the wall again.

Instead I take two sleeping pills and one Ativan and go to bed. 

See? I am fucking fine.