in which things go back to being not good

Her name is Valentina.

She can't be much older than I am. She looks like she should be seen between the pages of a magazine or on billboards or strutting down a catwalk. Definitely not sitting in this small, plain office. When she speaks, I find myself listening to her accent instead of her words. I can't quite place it. Russian maybe? Italian?

She's not a Model though. She's my new Psychiatrist.

I expect to dislike her, to distrust her, but then I don't. She listens. She radiates calm. She speaks intelligently. I realize I like her after only a few minutes. So when I speak, I tell the truth.

....

Despite the cold, it has somehow managed to snow again. The world is coated in giant, fluffy flakes like a child sprinkled pretend snow over a playhouse. The snowflakes are so light that they fly in all directions when I brush them off my car, covering me in sparkling snow. 

....

I met my lunch goal 5 out of 7 days.

My dietitian is very pleased. 

I am making an effort to be pleasant. Turning over a new leaf.

"This is the most I've ever seen you smile." She says.

She takes my weight. I wait for her to tell me what it was so we can talk about it. Like she promised.

But she doesn't. 

Instead she asks me if I'll stop weighing myself at home.

Again.

I stop smiling.

....

All of this is supposed to make me feel better, but it's not. I don't think the program is broken, I think I am. Therapists and dietitians all operate under the assumption that you want to get better. 

And I am still defining "better" wrong.

Or right?

I don't know.

I hate myself right now. I hate myself more than I have in months. I hate how I feel. I hate how I look. I hate the numbers on the scale. I hate my dietitians smile. I hate it when Molly talks about my "ED voice." I hate the diary card I'm supposed to fill out for DBT that monitors how I feel. 

I feel awful.

Last night I couldn't take it anymore. So I looked myself in the eye in the mirror and spewed out all the horrible, hateful thoughts I've been having about her, the girl in the reflection. I took my pills like I was supposed to, but they didn't stop me from slamming my arms into the door frame again. 

The pain worked better than the pills, anyways.

I don't want to do this. I don't think I can. 

of achievements

Wednesday evening, I slog my way through the wind and snow and slush to the big glass doors. I am still trying to straighten my wind blown hair with numb fingers when I approach the reception desk. Today it's the only guy. He has a silver piercing that glints in one ear and hair that makes me jealous. He looks up, smiles, and says, "Hi, Kay!"

I bristle. 

I don't want to be known by name here.

I stomp up the stairs and sit on the couch right in front of my dietitians door. Her door is closed, but I know what's behind it. The thing I've dreaded since my first day. The meal plan.

She finally emerges, but something is different. Someone else is lurking in her office, and there is a question on her face. I know what she's going to ask even before I see her lips form the word "intern."

My answer is no.

I feel guilty as she returns to the office and tells the young girl waiting that she cannot observe me. I feel resentful of that guilt as the girl walks quickly past me and down the stairs. 

She's just trying to learn. You've been an intern, you know. How's she supposed to learn if she can't observe?

I am already so many things. I don't want to be someone's science experiment, someone's research project, someone's homework. 

My dietitian reassures me several times that my answer was totally fine. It's my choice. If I don't want an intern sitting in, that is ok. My guilt fades quickly anyways because I am far more anxious about the sheet of paper in her hand.

We start with one meal. I get to choose, and I pick lunch. Lunch feels the safest. She slowly crafts a plan based around what I am already eating, and it's so simple, I feel suspicious. The plan is this:

1 serving of grains

1 serving of fruit

1 serving of vegetable

1 serving of protein

I am free to pick and choose whatever I want to fill in those categories. I just have to consume a full serving as detailed by the nutrition info. 

I am so relieved, I relax a little.

Then she starts trying to convince me once again to stop weighing myself at home.

Frustration boils over until I suddenly just tell her the truth. If I don't know my weight, it triggers me so much more. I assume I've gained a ton of weight. I assume I'm obese. 

She starts to argue with me, but then suddenly, she stops.

"Would it help you if we talked openly about your weight every time?" She asks.

I open my mouth to say no, but I pause. "Yeah." I say instead. "That would be....that would help."

We both look at each other, and we both know something has changed. I am suddenly no longer certain she's the enemy. 

I step on the scale. She tells me my weight. And we talk about it. 

I am not happy with the number. She asks if I have a number I'd like to be, and I do. I want to weigh what I weighed a couple weeks ago. So I tell her. She frowns.

"What if I told you that was an unhealthy weight for you?" She asks.

I start defensively explaining that all the charts I've looked at online say it's just fine, but halfway through I realize how foolish I sound. In the face of a licensed dietitian, my internet facts suddenly seem rather weak.

We don't reach an agreement, but when I leave, we actually smile at each other. Driving home, I am overwhelmed by something that feels like achievement.

...

Thursday afternoon finds me in a large room full of couches and chairs and kleenex boxes on every side table. 

I am the second one to arrive. Slowly the rest of the group files in, and I am shocked that I am nowhere near the oldest one there. There are a few younger college students, but most of the group is made up of women in their 30's, 40's, and even 50+.

We are a terribly strange arrangement of women.

I am not the skinniest. 

This nags at me, despite the fact that it's really only one girl. She sits shivering in the chair next to me and tucks handwarmers into her gloves despite the moderate temperature of the room. I am not cold, and this makes me ashamed of myself.

Most of the group are what would clinically be called "overweight." I find myself feeling superior to them, and I am ashamed of myself.

I check my purse for the fifth time. The small notebook is there, hidden inside. I think of all of you who suggested it and feel a little better.

My very first DBT group begins with a Mindfulness exercise. 

We each take a smooth stone from a bowl. We set it down in front of us. We observe the stone with our eyes, taking in the shape, the color, the irregularities. Then we pick it up and do the same with our hands. 

Inwardly, that cynical part of me is majorly rolling her eyes, but I try to follow the prompts. And it is relaxing in a way to put all my focus on one object. My rock is smooth and cool and white with streaks of soft orange like sherbet. I start picturing it as an egg, and soon I'm lost in my own imagination. I miss the last of the prompts, and suddenly the exercise is over. I reluctantly return my rock to the bowl. 

Of course, next we are instructed to talk about how we felt about the exercise. The responses run from love to cynicism to extreme dislike. I try to aim for somewhere in the middle. 

There is a check-in where we answer questions like what is your mood? What skills did you use this past week? What is a victory and a challenge you encountered? Do you have any safety concerns? What ED symptoms did you struggle with? The current group members read off their diary cards and talk about the goals they made last week. Along with the other new people, I answer what I can and try to be honest.

Then comes the binders.

In all of my life, in all of my education, I have never owned such a gigantic binder. It is terrifying in size and overwhelming in nature. But I don't have much time to panic because the leader announces a 15 minute break.

"We strongly encourage everyone to eat their snacks now." She says.

I eat my low calorie granola bar and try not to feel like a kindergartner. 

What comes next is basically a lecture. Since we are in the first module, "Mindfulness," it is pretty basic. There are no shocking realizations or life changing epiphanies, but the information is something that I not only understand, but can relate to. I do take notes in the binder, my own notebook staying in my purse, and I do find it interesting. When we are finally released two and a half hours later, I am ok.

I am not super excited to go to these groups every Thursday for the next six months, but I am also not afraid or dreading it anymore. 

Perhaps that makes two achievements in one week.

of [self-inflicted] dietitian drama

"Do you think you could do that?"

I am nodding. My head bobs up and down. Across from me my dietitian is nodding too. We both silently sit there, nodding like idiots as we stare at each other. I can tell she's trying to read me, but the instant I step into her office I turn into an emotionless robot who agrees to everything.

I lie to her a lot.

I try to convince myself that I am not a bad person because I'm lying to be nice. I don't want to hurt her feelings by saying no. I don't want to tell her that she's stupid and her ideas are stupid and her office is stupid and I hate everything about it because that would be mean.

I am a bad person.

So I keep nodding, and she keeps nodding. She keeps making goals, and I keep pretending I met them. I lie without even thinking about it. I lie without even feeling guilty. I lie because that's what I do. I lie.

We've moved past the simple goals. Next week she's going to present me with my meal plan. The meal plan I said I'd try to follow and really have no intention of doing so.

She has really big eyes, and she looks so fucking concerned all the time. I don't know how to be honest with her. Telling her the truth would be like kicking a puppy.

[A puppy you really don't like but is still a puppy and should not be kicked and you are a terrible person for even thinking about  it]

The first thing I do when I enter a room now is look for a scale. If there is a scale, I am instantly defensive and sullen. If there is no scale, I can relax. I am safe. Molly's office is safe. The dietitian's office is THE WORST.

I've gained a little weight. I knew I'd gained some weight. I hate that I've gained some weight. I have grand plans to lose it, but I keep putting food in my mouth.

It always starts the same way. The day begins. I am strong. I am disciplined. I have everything lined out. I have counted every calorie. I have a plan.

Then I make one mistake.

One cookie. A small piece of candy. A chunk of cheese.

This starts a downward spiral. I feel instantly horrible and guilty. I tell myself that I've already ruined everything and I'm going to get fat and ugly and die, so I might as well eat another cookie. Three cookies later, I'm ok with getting a latte. After the latte, I decide I might as well eat dinner. And a snack. I am ok as long as I am chewing something. As soon as I stop, the self-loathing cracks me over the head again. So I eat some more.

When I step off the scale, my dietitian scribbles down the number where I can't see. I put my boots and coat back on and watch as she narrows her eyes at the clipboard. She quickly logs onto her computer and checks something. Then she looks at me with a smug little smile.

For the first time I don't ask her how much I weighed. I don't want to know.

and a very happy christmas to you

It is Christmas Eve, and I wake up in a cold sweat.

My mother died. She was dead. She died in my dream, and I was sad.

I am alone in our bed. The Mr. is at work until noon. I sit up and try to orient myself. It is Christmas Eve. The Mr. is at work. My mother is not dead.

I am groggy as I stumble down the stairs and into the shower. Under the hot water, I stare numbly at the tile for too long, and when I finally get out and look at a clock, I swear. I don't have time to find my heaviest outfit. I'm already running late.

It's Christmas Eve and Christmas music is playing cheerily on the radio in my car as I drive. I pull into the coffee shop drive through and order a soy latte, two splendas. Then I cross the road and park.

The office building is deserted, but Christmas lights twinkle behind closed blinds. I push the elevator button because no one is around to see me, and I don't mind waiting. I hear the gears rumbling around for what seems like ages before the doors finally open. A rail thin teenage boy emerges and pushes abruptly past me. He doesn't look back.

The back wall of the elevator is one giant mirror. As usual, I scrutinize my legs and wonder why on earth a treatment center for eating disorders would have such a mirror in the elevator.

The waiting room is full of various couches surrounding coffee tables covered in puzzle pieces. I sit down at the Van Gogh puzzle and try to find a missing piece of yellow sky. I try a hundred pieces, but I can't find the right one. I can't stop thinking about how my dream self fell apart when my mother died.

My dietitian calls me in, and I try not to look guilty. It's been, what? Three weeks?

"How are you?" She says.

"Great!" I say with fake cheerfulness.

"I talked to Molly. I hear you tried pasta?"

I have a second of panic. Did Molly tell her that I ate pasta so she wouldn't know how much I really weighed? Did I tell Molly that? I can't remember. My mind is foggy with lingering grief from a dream.

"Oh yeah..." I manage lamely.

"And how was that? How did you feel about it?"

I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

It's Christmas Eve, and I sit in my dietitian's office and talk about how I felt eating pasta. Then I have to talk about how I felt about eating pizza last night. She asks how many pieces I ate.

"One." I say.

I ate four.

"They were square cut." I add quickly. I'm not sure if I'm trying to justify my decisions to her or myself.

She nods and scribbles on her notepad, and I think for the millionth time that this is ridiculous.

She asks if I ate anything else afterwards.

"No." I say.

I ate candy afterwards.

I don't know why I'm lying.

Yes I do. It's shame.

She takes my weight. I step off the scale and put my boots back in, watching as she silently writes the numbers down where I can't see.

"What was my weight?" I finally ask, irritated.

She hesitates, her disapproval obvious. "107. So it's down."

I try to look repentant, but I walk out smiling.

...

It's Christmas Day, and I wake up in the early hours of the morning. I haven't been this excited about Christmas in a very long time. I lay awake, giddy, until I finally wake the Mr. up at a semi-reasonable time. We spend the morning opening gifts, drinking coffee, and eating the cinnamon roll pancakes I made. I told the dietitian I'd only eat one.

I eat two.

We Skype with my family to open our gifts from them. My mother bought me a navy blue peacoat I wanted. I put it on, and it fits perfectly. I model it for them, and I am pleased at how thin I look. I hope my mother notices. I hope she sees.

The Mr. and I brave the snowy outside world to go for a walk. Everything is quiet. The kind of muffled, subdued quiet that snow brings. The only noise is the monotonous scraping of a neighbor shoveling his sidewalk. We are quiet too, both lost in our thoughts of home. I know he's homesick before he says it. He misses his family every day, but holidays are the hardest. I miss them too, but they live fifteen minutes from my family. And my sanity is already fragile.

By the time we get back, my cheeks are burning with cold and my legs are numb, but I feel good. I feel alive. I feel free to eat Christmas candy, and so I do.

For dinner we have an assortment of fancy cheese and wine. It is two glasses of wine later that I end up sitting completely clothed in the dry bathtub and crying.

The Mr. finds me and simply climbs right in next to me. There is a myriad of explanations I could give. I ate so much food today. I miss being with his family. I hate myself because I'm so horribly fat. I dreamed that my mother died, and I was sobbing...

Instead I tell him that I looked up information on adopting a child and how I found out that they check your mental health records. 

Which makes perfect sense. They don't want mentally unstable people adopting a child. 

Mentally unstable people like me.

So I sit in the bathtub and cry because I can't adopt a little girl from Thailand and save her from being sold into prostitution and I probably wouldn't be a good mother anyways because I'd probably turn into my mother and I'm getting old and I don't want to be an old mother and I keep finding myself picturing a baby with the Mr.'s blue eyes and curly hair and I'm afraid I'll never get to meet that baby...

The Mr. just rubs my back and calmly says all the right things. This is not the first time I've had a breakdown in the bathtub, and we both know it probably won't be the last.

...

It's just past midnight. Christmas is officially over, but I am still awake. There were too many words in my head for sleep. 

There are five days left in 2013. I have eleven days left to be twenty-six. 

I started this blog in January of this year, and it became a chronicle of my spiral down, down, down. I'm not sure if I've hit rock bottom or if I have further to fall. Am I moving upwards or downwards still? I don't know. 

All I know is that I can not wait to leave this year behind.

So Merry Christmas one hour too late, and thank you. Some of you know me and most of you don't. But all of you have helped me struggle through the worst year of my life. And I could never thank you enough for that. 

It's the day after Christmas, and I am still alive.