On The Way To Recovery

As I drive to my place of cold

Morning sun streams
Over frosted fields

Recovery is a wing
Pierced by blades

Of winter grass.

Welcome To Hell...

...It's where I have been since Friday's therapy session.


I've scoured Google Images. Searched all the most horrible words I can think of in, a vain attempt to find a picture that captures even a tendril of the mass of ... mass of what? I don't even have the vocab for it... the mass of whatever it is that lies throbbing and bleeding inside.

It's a mass of hot, white unknowns which twist in me; sometimes surging in violent, murderous ire, sometimes burning slow and orange. Other times the mass is suddenly pain in a cold, black ache.

It's all to do with the hell that is an eating disorder.
The aftermath of a purgeless binge.
The clawing desperation to tear huge chunks of flesh from my body just to weigh less.
It's the pathetic despair of facing a future with nothing better than this.
It's the dull agony of depression.

I'm screaming but the screaming isn't a sound. It's the absence of sound. It's the silence that becomes an unbearable pressure on ears that ring, desperate for noise, desperate to be freed from oppressive quiet.

Therapy must have really been huge in Friday, right?

You'd think.

You'd think there would be some profound reason for the fact that I've spent the weekend under duvet, trying to stem the bleeding from my finger which ended up getting the raw deal from the double edged blade.

All it was, so far as I can work out, was that the woman didn't really seem to understand.

I'm stuck for words to explain and my head is screaming at me to stop typing this. Such resistance.

The woman suggested that when I have my own place (I'm trying to buy a house) it will be easier for me and my eating disorder (my need for control) will die down.
She said that many people just found a weight they could live with and then got on with living.
She mentioned the gym and said maybe I'd just enjoy the healthy exercise. She talked about food and suggested that I would find a balance.

(My face is threatening to collapse as I type)

Okay so I have typed and deleted in circles for five minutes so I'll just be done with it now.

I heard her say that
your life will be a struggle forever
your ED will never really go away.
and it all basically amounts to
this is the best that you can hope for

...and the words of an old favourite ring in my ears, as they so often do when death feels the best chocolate in the box...

"and the best that you can hope for is to die in your sleep"

(K. Rogers. The Gambler)

I predict a heart attack.
Or diabetes.

And
I found this which, I suppose, isn't too bad a representation when it's all said and done.