of drama

"Is there anything I can do to help you get back on track?" My dietitian asks.

I smile politely and shake my head as though I'm declining sugar in my tea.

"Your dietitian spoke with me. She's worried about you. I am too." Molly is leaning forward and I am purposefully not looking at her. I know this trick. I know what she's doing.

I want to throw things.

I stopped following my meal plan.

If I hadn't said anything about it, if I'd just lied, I know all this drama wouldn't have happened. But I told her, my dietitian. Partly out of spite. Partly because I wanted her to know that I was in control.

I didn't expect the drama.

It was as if I told them that I'd stopped eating entirely. That I was never going to eat again. And so began the guilt trips, the scare tactics, the emotional manipulation.

When I look at them now, all I can see is my mother.

I want to be done with this. I was told to go to treatment by a team of people in white lab coats, so I did. I went because I was just a small broken person in turquoise scrubs, all my secrets revealed. I went because it was expected. I went because all the people in my life looked so worried. It wasn't for me. It was for them. And I'll admit, I was curious. But I am so done with it now. With all of it. I can't trust them anymore. I have no desire to change. I never have. I am the wolf in sheep's clothing, and I am so tired of saying what I know I'm supposed to say.

Anger constantly lurks around my rib cage. I find myself clenching my fists to keep from exploding at my boss just for talking. My family wants to know how I'm doing. They want a progress report. Concrete numbers marking my ascent into sanity. They love me. I know that. But the phone calls and the emails slowly pile up.

Get better. Get better. Get better. Get better.

They want to know how long I'll be in therapy, how long I'll have to take medication. When? When? When? And throughout it all I can hear what they're not saying and the pressure is crushing me.

Get better. Get better. Get better. GET BETTER.

It makes me want to scream.

I've never been an angry person. I don't like angry people. Including myself.

My dreams come in strange flashes as though someone is flipping quickly through a slideshow of pictures. It is a barrage of light and dark and emotion. Bits and pieces of normal life intermixed with the strange, the terrifying, the horrifying, the heart-wrenching. Throughout the day I find myself suddenly perplexed about reality. What is real and what is dream? I try to sort through the pictures, but they are scattered across the floor in a jumbled mess.

I am tired. I am crackling with irritation. I am frustrated. I don't want to go to work. I don't want to go to treatment. I feel like I am losing my mind. I just want everyone to leave me alone.

Even writing is difficult. It's like trudging through knee deep mud. I've closed countless blank pages before I managed to spit these jumbled words out.

I'm afraid I'm not a very pleasant person these days.