Tue, Sep. 28th, 2004, 12:54 am
It's been awhile since I've updated this. So, I'm going on medical leave...again. I've just been really depressed and can't even get myself out of my bed to go to class. I thought I was ready to go back to school but I wasn't. I'm trying to get into another treatment center this time long term not just 2 months. I've been feeling pretty good from Friday on, although the last two days haven't been the best. I’ve just come back to this place that I thought after Warner I wouldn't get back to. At least not this soon. It's weird because Rachel is going through the exact same thing to the tee as I am. We just laugh about it cause we're really just so similar. We both said yeah we laugh about it with each other, but then of course cry about it all the time when we're alone. As much as everything sucks the one thing that's different is that I have faith someday it will change and be alright. Of course I only feel that way some of the time but that's better than nothing. Also I'm moving out of my apartment and believe me I'm not upset about that at all. It's ridiculous there and one person can only take so much ridiculousness. On a good note this weekend was awesome and made me forget about shitty stuff. Crazy times in the city and on long island. Bah I'm emotionally and physically exhausted. Neway thats all. If you need an apartment let me know cause I need someone to take my room...okee ltr
Current Mood: Drained
Current Music: The Shins- Caring is Creepy
I was home for less than a week before I started binging again. At first the binges weren’t as severe as they had been in the past but that changed quickly. The outpatient program I was sent to did nothing for me. For six weeks I drove twenty minutes away to sit in a room with a bunch of girls denying they needed help. I was one of two people who had actually been in a hospital and the only person being treated for a binge eating disorder. The other girls couldn’t understand why a fat girl was in treatment with them. They looked at me in disgust and refused to believe that my disorder was essentially the same as theirs. I learned nothing, hated it, and in many ways think it made me relapse sooner.
My shame for having fallen so quickly was on a whole new level and it made everything worse. I became more secretive about my binges and started excessively lying again. I didn’t want to admit to anyone that things were going wrong. I wanted to somehow figure out how to make things better on my own. I wanted Warner to have worked. I wanted magic and I didn’t want to face the fact that that just wasn’t going to happen.
Despite knowing that I was in the middle of a relapse I took an opportunity that came my way when a friend of mine had a room open up in her apartment in Astoria, Queens. I came to the conclusion that maybe if I was able to live on my own I would start to take responsibility for myself. I begged, pleaded, and fought until my parents agreed. I started seeing a therapist at the Manhattan branch of Warner and registered for classes at Nassau. I created the facade of setting myself up for success in my new life as an adult in the big city. Every part of me wanted to believe that this plan of mine would work out.
When it was time to officially move in, my dad and I packed up his van with my bedroom furniture and headed to Queens. We painted my room a light purple, brought in all of my belongings, and hugged each other. This was a huge moment for both of us. I was being given the opportunity to prove I could take care of myself and he was being given the opportunity to see his daughter potentially grow up. After my dad left I stood alone in the middle of my new bedroom and for a minute felt like a real adult. For just one minute things seemed like they were starting to go my way.
It was a mess. Living on my own just allowed me to be even more isolated and irresponsible than I was before. I almost immediately stopped going to school and therapy. One of my roommates, a self proclaimed hipster before the term was as overused as it is today, was not only the most obnoxious person I had ever met, but had a dog who she didn’t take care of and let shit all over the apartment. It was me and this little pipsqueak by ourselves all day in the stink of shit that I refused to clean up. I was miserable and alone and started to gain weight again at a rapid pace. Once I found myself secretly stealing food from my roommates I knew it was time to go.
I wasn’t ready to get an apartment and live on my own. I wasn’t ready to go back to school. I wasn’t ready to be trusted to take care of myself. But I sure as hell convinced myself I was. I convinced myself, I convinced my parents, I convinced my friends, I even convinced my therapist. All of us wanted to believe that the change in me after Warner was enough to help me thrive. So much so that maybe certain signs of my demise were ignored. And possibly I purposely put myself in positions, like moving out of my house, where my parents couldn’t see how bad I was actually doing.
I’m not sure when I finally made the decision to tell them the truth, but I remember being terrified. Telling them the truth meant confessing that I had yet again been openly lying to them for months. My mom had cautiously, after a lot of reassuring and a lot of family therapy, signed my year long lease. Moving out would mean she would be left with the bill and I would be left having betrayed her trust once again. My dad who was distraught by being unable to help me go back to SVA, was not only bogged down by the loan we took out from my first attempt at school but now my second. Admitting what I was about to admit to them would mean telling them I hadn’t been going to my classes. I once again had wasted thousands of dollars that he didn’t have in the first place.
Then there was therapy. I was legally an adult and my therapist didn’t have the right to call my parents and tell them I hadn’t shown up to a session in over a month. This would be the kicker. Money aside, having the knowledge that I was no longer attending therapy would break my parents hearts the most. They would know that I wasn’t taking my medicine, they would know that everything they feared would happen when they agreed to let me move out on my own, was currently happening. For them it would be the solidifying factor in my having relapsed.
As scary as it was, I knew I didn’t have any other option but to tell them. Staying in that apartment and denying my condition could only end horribly and I’d been through too much to let it go any further. On the night that I had finally had enough, I got in my car, drove to my dad's house, sat on his couch and through streams of tears told him everything. This whole experiment of me taking responsibility for my own life had failed. I needed to come home. I needed to go back on medical leave and it was time to start fighting to get me into Chestnut again.