My parents are traveling since friday, and should be out for just three days. It was supposed to be the time of my life: I would watch my tv shows on the living room using the biggest screen, I would walk around naked and do whatever I want, whenever I want. It would be those small fractions of freedom that I don't usually get much (my dad is retired and always around, my younger brother tends to be clingy, you get the picture). But the problem was: they left me the exactly week I don't feel well.
It started mostly on friday, after my psychologist's session. It was a really tense one, mostly about my eating disorders and how it affected me in the past and now. Also, about how people tend to behave around me when the subject is food and eating. It was terrible. I mean, I thought I was doing well these past weeks, mainly because I stopped crying all the time whenever I merely entered my psychologist's office, and the medication was making me feel so active. I won't lie, it was still hard to clean around much, and to go outside, but I was doing some chores already and feeling less empty and dead inside.
So, when I left the psychologist, I didn't take five whole minutes to have a compulsion in the snack bar just in front of the building. I just ate like my life depended on it, like I didn't do for a month. I felt like failure. I came home and began to enter again in that self destructive mode, where I have terrible compulsions, think about purging, and then just stay in bed wishing an accident would happen and I would finally find peace in death. I thought it couldn't get any worse, but saturday was... well, it was one of the worst days I had in my entire life. Compulsion, again, an intense fear of everything and everyone, this awful desire to do my chores or simply do something, but an impossible weight on my shoulders that kept me on bed. Somedays when I get like this, I can at least watch some tv, or read. But not yesterday. I just... kept staring at the wall, crying and thinking what I could do to make that pain go away.
I am not suicidal. At least not as much as I was before. I still think about it, but I won't engage. I was the one that decided to seek help, I was the one that scheduled a psychologist, I was the one that accepted medication. I want to get better. But I thought that once I started feeling better, I wouldn't fall again in these miserable days, where everything is simply too much. I thought things would just go easily, and I would feel everyday better. I know recovery isn't easy and requires hard work, and isn't always linear. But deep inside, I was trying to believe it would be all those things.