Confiscated

My doctor took ALL the pills I had stockpiled and didn’t use during my suicide attempt.

All of them.

And then he destroyed him.

I hate my whole team right now. 

I don’t want to recover I want my damn pills back so that I have an out in case I need it. I had hundreds of pills saved up sinc I was in late high school and college. From every surgery and injury bc, well, my pain threshold is high and I didn’t need them for that purpose. 

And now they’re gone. 

And I can’t have them back.

And I’m so pissed. 

I have no clue how I am going to go to work tomorrow. I feel like I need to go to therapy. Ironic since instead of going inside at this very moment I’m in my car typing this. 

But I can’t go in. I DONT WANT TO HEAR ABOUT EVERYONE ELSES ISSUES. I have enough on my mind without all their Bologna. I don’t need to hear about their problem with their job or their family or their day. I want to not hear about how awful everyone’s lives are because right now ALL I WANT IS TO END MINE. And that will NOT be helpful. 

I texted my IOP therapist (one of them) that is running group and said I’m not coming. She promptly replied with “yes u r” to which I have yet to respond and clearly, yet to abide by. 

Part of me is wondering if they’ll even care if I don’t show up. I’m a lost cause. I’m a burden and a mess. I’m complicated and hard to handle with therapy because I don’t trust anyone fully with my feelings including my conscious self. 

Anyway. I’m tired. I hate me. I WANT MY PILLS BACK. On a scale of hate my doctor is on the top. He’s a nice guy and easy to talk to but he is evil and awful for taking them before I was ready. My whole team is actually bc I wasn’t ready and they still forced me to do it. Well now I am just BEYOND depressed again and not going to treatment and I really don’t see how that’s at ALL useful. 

I hate them all. I hate them, I hate them I HATE THEM. 

All I want is to punch something right now or scream or nth or to run and exercise but noooooo I can’t exercise because that would be breaking the rules and even though I am overweight- despite what they say- I am not allowed to do it. Well eff this I am so done listening to people who lie about my weight and won’t really tell me if I have gained. I’m tired of people not letting me choose anything for myself. I hate this whole stupid process and I hate my life. Why did I even go to treatment in the first place??? If God really had a plan he’d have stopped all this madness a long time ago. 

I’m done trustin people. I’m done trying. I am just relying on myself from now on. The end no one else but me. 

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Hospitalized

 I got terrified and texted my therapist from IOP. She demanded to talk to my mom and let her know what I had done as soon as I told her. 

Now I’m baker acted and waiting for the psychiatrist to come see me. Last night I spent the night in the psych ward with my room under video surveillance. Classy. 

I can’t believe I did this. I regret it whole heartedly. I shouldn’t have done it. My whole self regrets it more than anything I’ve ever done before. 

The even *more awesome* news is  that I will have to discharge from IOP if I’m still here tomorrow and on top of that If I have to go back to ED residential I’ll lose the job that’s paying for my insurance that’s covering this red hot mess of a life I’ve got. 

Lesson: maybe suicide just makes everything worse.

When you try suicide

TRIGGER WARNING: suicide, self harm, drugs, eating disorder, depression

-—————————-

I’m in the midst of an overdose. My family is in the next room totally oblivious to this. It’s not peaceful at all. It’s so painful, my stomach feels like lava is boring through it, I can’t stay awake, I’m shaking so bad my muscles are cramping, my head hurts which is ironic for Someone who just took a ton of painkillers, I am SO itchy it feels like bugs are crawling all over my body, I’m hot and sweaty but ice cold at the same time. I don’t think I’ll die though bc I am 2 hours in and still awake on and off and still with it enough to breathe.

I’m sorry family, especially momma bear. I’m sorry treatment team. I’m sorry friends.

Also if anyone is considering this, DON’T it’s awful. It’s not like going to sleep it’s VERY SLOW AND AGONIZINGLY PAINFUL. You all deserve better and to live and be happy. ❤️

I’m sorry momma bear. 

Time to sleep more can’t keep my eyes open even for another second.

I love you mom. 

The end. 

Please don’t proceed if you are triggered by self harm, suicide or eating disorders. 
I genuinely think I am going to kill myself in the next week. My family needs money to pay the bills and I’m draining any assistance I can give on treatment. I know if I don’t go to treatment then I will relapse instantly and die so I am having a hard time thinking of a reason to not just do it and be done. 

The only caveat is that my therapists at IOP know and I’m sure they’ve told my doctor and outpatient therapist so I’m not sure what I’ll do.

Confession:

I realized today that part of the reason I am so darn reluctant to give up my eating disorder is because there is a part of me that, deep down, just wants to die already.

 

I think I’m really done

Like done, done.

Done with treatment.

Done with depression.

Done with anxiety.

Done with perpetual constant self hate.

Done with thought of self harm and SI.

Done with feelings.

Done with meds.

Done being tired all the time.

Done with people.

Done with myself.

Facing My Fear of the Scale

Got my weekend homework for IOP: Bring my scale to IOP on Monday.

Anyone with an ED can probably figure out why: we are getting rid of it.

Thing is this isn’t hard for me because I am getting rid of it, it’s hard because, well, I haven’t touched it in over 2 years. I haven’t weighed myself on it. Haven’t turned it on, haven’t anything.

Why?

(Trigger Warning Begin: Suicide, Depression, Self-Harm, Eating Disorder)

Because the last time I touched that scale I almost attempted suicide.

The number had gone up. I was a failure. I hated myself. My life. My body. Everything. I couldn’t live with myself anymore. I had to die. I wanted to die. I had failed and I deserved to die.

I prepped everything. I was in the bathroom, I figured it would be easier for them that way, easier to clean. Plus, there were no pictures, no reminders of what there was left of my life. I got the pills, I got the razors. I was done.

I didn’t go through with it. As I laid out the pills and brought the razor closer to my flesh I thought about them- my 4 year old niece and nephew. What would my family tell them? Would they remember me? Would they be at the funeral? Would they forget me eventually? Would they hate me for what I had done?

Touching the razor to my wrist and seeing the faces of those two little “babies” was all it took. I looked down at the razor, looked at myself, at that scale 2 feet away, at the pills in my palm and then fear surged through me, my thoughts racing through my mind so fast. It was like my mind was trying to get out everything that was rational before the depression, before Ed took back over.

(Trigger Warning End)

What are you doing? This is not okay? You need help. Don’t do this. They need you.

The fear coursed through my entire body so strongly that I threw up out of fear. I flushed the pills, I flushed the razor and then I turned and looked at that scale. I was hysterically crying at this point. Terrified to look at it, to touch it. Half of me was scared I couldn’t withstand the screaming voice in my head to stand on it, the other half was terrified that I would see the number again and not be able to stop myself against the suicidal thoughts.

I flipped the scale over with my foot, fumbled with the battery component because I was shaking so hard that I couldn’t steady my hands enough. I tore the battery out violently and flushed that too. And then I put the scale away, in the back of the closet. The “junk” closet. The one with the stuff we never use. And I NEVER touched it again.

Now, one of my IOP therapists wants me to bring it on Monday. Wants me to touch it during treatment and then get rid of it for good. I’m not even sure I can touch it to put it in the car so she said to have someone else do it for me and she’ll come get it out of the car.

That’s how bad my fear is.

Even getting weighed at the doctor’s office, daily in treatment and weekly now during IOP causes such anxiety that I have to take my anxiety medicine beforehand. And if it’s a scale that makes noise (like ones that aren’t digital) it’s almost too traumatizing to handle. (Case and point: Tuesday when I had to be weighed at IOP because my therapist wasn’t here to weigh me and it took my dietitian 15 minutes, music, stepping on the scale to hold it steady and a double dose of anxiety medicine to get me to even comply.

So that’s my homework. Bring my scale. Touch it on Monday. Getting it into my car will even be a challenge so I have to ask someone to do it for me- which is also hard because I feel like that’s embarrassing to admit and I hate asking for help but at least I have a few days to figure it out.

But oh gosh, I have to touch it. I don’t want to do it, I really don’t want to do it.

Crying for Help

I need help.

I need help.

I need help.

I can’t do this much longer. I don’t want to. I want out. I want OUT. I want HIM out of my head, I want to stop thinking about food all the time, stop being hungry, stop vomiting everything I eat, stop chewing and spitting, stop the cravings, stop the side effects. I want to STOP IT ALL.

I’ve been pacing through my kitchen and living room contemplating going home. Home to my mom’s to ask for help, to spill my guts, and pray to God someone takes this serious and knows what to do and how to get help.

But as I type this, the voice is coming back. The one telling me to keep quiet, that this is normal, that I NEED this and not food. I feel trapped. I feel so trapped.

I wish I could go for a run but I can’t because this damn aircast is stuck on me for at least 2 more weeks. I wish I could burn all the calories off my body, shrink and disappear. I hate this.

I hate this.

I hate this person I am trapped inside of.

I wish someone understood.

I wish someone knew.