Well, Shit.

Can you believe it's been a year?

I thought I was going to post more often, then I thought life happened and I didn't need this blog anymore. But here I am, the holidays, one week away from a road trip to visit Eli's family. Freezing in a snowstorm after what is possibly the shittiest day in a very long time. And after all of this time, thinking I was fine. Thinking everything was totally in my past.

I go to the doctor today, and I leave with a diagnosis. A fucking diagnosis. The diagnosis that I never thought I would get, and there it is, in black-and-white. Anorexia nervosa, restricting type. Yet, I leave my doctors appointment feeling totally invalidated by him. He didn't seem like he took me seriously, he didn't give me great advice, I had to ask him for referral to dietitian. And he doesn't say anything about a diagnosis.

But then I look at my chart online tonight, on the patient website. And there in black-and-white, there's a diagnosis. A diagnosis he didn't even say anything to me about.
So, here I am totally suck. I have no idea what to do and I'm afraid. I have thought that I would feel so successful when I finally got here. When I was skinny enough, sick enough, worrisome enough to qualify for that elitist diagnosis.

 But instead, I feel confused. I don't feel like I accomplished anything, I don't feel like I'm somehow satisfied with my weight, thinking that if I just got here everything would be fine. As if the diagnosis would somehow indicate that I were in fact thin. But all I see still is fat.
I don't have any idea how to tell Eli, I don't know how to see his family for five whole days, in just a week. And I don't know how to fix this feeling.

My therapist today made me sign this paper, it was a disclosure agreement. It was an agreement that lets him call Eli, if he gets concerned for me. I asked him if I had a choice, He told me that I did, that I could choose to not sign it. That if I did that he would just break confidentiality if he needed to. So, I didn't really have choice. My choice was either do it of my own volition, or have him call him anyway if he felt the need. So I signed.

He tried to feather the blow, by saying that it was only because he was concerned and that he'd never had a reason to be concerned before. All of this without knowing that diagnosis. Just knowing the thoughts I share with him, after working on building a relationship for over a year. I feel cornered by him doing that, even though I am sure that he felt it was best or he wouldn't have done it.

He asked me if I wanted to die.

I don't.

I just want a break. I just want a couple of weeks where I don't have to think or try or struggle.

But a couple of weeks is too long.

I have a follow-up with my doctor on Monday, my therapist is calling me on Friday to check-in. I don't understand why everyone so concerned honestly. Nothing feels that different to me now than it ever did before. But apparently something changed enough to make them care.

So, Here I am.

Somehow, more broken than before.

xxblakexx

sstt