the malnourished ghost does not like her dietitian

Is that any surprise?

It's been a long week. A never ending week. Friday night I finally took a breath. Then I blinked and now it's Saturday night and tomorrow is Sunday and then it all starts over again.

It probably doesn't help that I spent 80% of today in bed because real life seemed like an overwhelming obstacle.

Thursday I had two appointments. At 4:00 pm I met my dietitian for the first time. At 5:00 pm I met with my therapist again.

I've been avoiding talking about it. I've been avoiding thinking about it.

I'd slipped up to 108.4 lbs. I was furious about that. New bruises darkened my arms. I knew the dietitian was going to weigh me, and I hated her for that before even meeting her.

Then I met her and...

(This is the part where I sound like a petulant, horrible person)

My dietitian is overweight.

In the crazy maze that is my head, this obviously means that she is going to try to make me overweight too. Which in turn means I can't trust anything she says about food.

Her whole face was washed in pity as I twisted my hands in my lap and reluctantly answered her questions. Yes, I know. Sad story. I'm fucked up. I know. I know. I didn't ask for her pity. I didn't want her pity. I didn't even want to be there.

But I was.

So I mumbled my answers to her questions about what I eat, how much I eat, what I won't eat, what I will eat, where I eat, if I count calories, if I exercise, if I binge, if I purge, and on and on and on.

Finally she told me it was time to take my weight. I tried not to glare at her as I stripped off as much clothing as possible while still clinging to some pride. I could tell she didn't want to let me know what the numbers were, which probably had something to do with my reluctance to step on the scale in the first place. But I persisted, and so she let me see.

110.3 lbs.

Then came the question.

How does that make you feel?

That led to a discussion where she tried to convince me that maybe I shouldn't see the numbers in the future. That discussion ended with me firmly stating (for the second time), "I WOULD RATHER KNOW."

"Ok then." She said, but her face betrayed her disapproval.

Next, she blindsided me with goals. I didn't have any goals. I didn't want to make any goals. I wanted to throw her scale through her window.

She made goals for me.

1). Eat one snack a day.
2). Eat something with the Mr. when he eats dinner.

"Do you think you can do that?" She asked, wide eyed. The sweetness in her voice made me feel sick.

I muttered something that could have been taken as an affirmation. She narrowed her eyes a tiny bit.

"Do you think you can try to do that?" She repeated.

"I guess." I said to the coffee table. She was acting like I was seconds away from death's door. I wondered if the doctor had informed her I was "malnourished." I wondered if I was the only sane one. I wondered if this was all a joke.

When I left her office, I was terribly tempted to take the stairs two at a time and escape. Instead I sat in the lobby and seethed. A skinny girl across from me was eating a giant rice krispy bar.

I popped a stick of gum in my mouth to trick my stomach into forgetting I hadn't eaten anything all day. Lot good it had done me. 110.3 lbs. As if 110.3 lbs could ever be considered malnourished.

Molly was smiling when she came around the corner to get me. I was glaring at the girl with the rice krispy bar.

Molly wanted to know how meeting with the dietitian had gone. I told her it was hard. She said she'd expected as much. She wanted to know why. I don't even remember what I said. She didn't push. She just moved on to other things.

And maybe it was because there was never pity on Molly's face, or maybe because I never felt like she was patronizing me, but suddenly words were just spilling out of my mouth. I talked. She listened. She didn't sit there and scribble notes. She just listened. And I think the biggest reason why I actually like Molly is because she is trying to get to know me. Not my eating disorder. Not my mental illness. Me.

This morning the scale said 107.4 lbs.

For the foreseeable future, I will be meeting with Molly and the dietitian every week. I still don't know when I'll start DBT.

How do I feel?

I looked up synonyms for overwhelmed because that word has begun to irritate me. And I found one that rings true.

Vanquished.

I feel vanquished. Does that sound melodramatic? Probably. Whatever. It's true. And maybe I'm not putting up much of a fight, but there doesn't really seem to be a point. I don't care. Everything is too much and I'm too tired and at this point I'm only going to treatment because I don't have the energy to put up a fight.

So I'm going back to bed where I'll pretend that tomorrow isn't Sunday.