Thursday, 12 November 2015

Waiting for rescue

The road to recovery doesn't follow a straight line, but twists and turns unpredictably. I've taken the wrong path plenty of times, spent a good while going around in circles, and am prone to moving in reverse. Still, I've made progress. Even in my weak moments, when I wish I could go back pre-recovery, I know it isn't possible. I crossed mountains to get to where I am now, and there's no way back.

The pace I take varies too. Up until recently, I'd been charging ahead at high speed, all fired up with frustration. My brain fizzed and popped - I concocted plans, implemented changes, and made sweeping pronouncements. But my sprint came to an abrupt end when I smacked into a wall and fell. Defeated, I waved my white flag. I give in, I need help.

I asked my therapist for more support. My plea was utterly heartfelt - I practically bled desperation. She said she would start the referral process for the alternative treatment centre, and let my doctor know so that the necessary tests could be organised. But my doctor wasn't told, and the next time I saw my therapist, she approached the subject tentatively. She seemed unsure of my feelings about it, and kept referring to it in uncertain terms - as an 'if' or a 'maybe', rather than the solid "YES", that I told her it was.

I reassured her that I wanted to go ahead with the referral. She seemed happy with my reply, and said she'd prepare it.

Great, I thought. Then I waited.

No word came. I turned up to the next appointment, hoping... for information, or evidence of action. Even an official-looking piece of paper would have helped.

But there was nothing.

My therapist wanted to 'check' with me. Again. Was I sure? Did I want her to do the referral? I have NO IDEA why. Was I going mad? There was nothing ambiguous about what I'd said, I was certain.

It left me feeling angry, confused and hopeless. I didn't want to talk, so I left the session after ten minutes. I had nothing to add anyway - my life was exactly the same as it had been the last few times I had seen her. Every day I diligently stuck to my meal plan, binged, then did my best to vomit up my internal organs. Every day, I despaired. Every day I waited for help.

After my exit that day, the wheels started moving. There is more waiting to be done, but it is a relief to get some traction finally.

As part of the referral, I have to outline what I hope to achieve at the new clinic, so I met with my psychiatrist to discuss it. I sounded rational and sure when I spoke. The things I said were true -  I need structure and more intensive support to blast through. My disordered behaviours need to be interrupted. But while the words came confidently out, the line of conversation inside my head took at different turn. What have you done? You cannot go through with this. They'll make you fat! You will fail! Everyone else will be young and thin and you are fat and old and you will not even fit through the doors you are so enormous and you will knock the poor girls over and they will be appalled at the grotesque fatness!

So you see, the ill part of me is the teensiest bit terrified. I will essentially be relinquishing control over what goes in and out of my mouth, and that is a really big deal. After the fuss I have made, I sincerely hope I don't back out. One thing I am sure of, if I do commit, I'm not going to waste the opportunity. I will throw myself in, boots and all.




 
 
xx

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