Just another Monday

This morning, I waited about 4 hours for my parents to wake up so I could ask for a ride to the ER…again.

The emergency room I went to has you sign in via kiosk by scanning your ID and selecting why you’re there. They have about a dozen buttons for common ailments. Below that, they have an option to type in your own reason. I was very tempted to type “bulimia’s a bitch” as my reason, but instead just put “bulimia and laxative abuse”.

I was given a room pretty quickly (they know me well there) and was given fluids and poked for blood. My potassium was low. Big surprise. The re-hydrated me, gave me potassium pills and prescriptions to fill at my pharmacy, and sent me home.

When I got home, I was NOT doing well. I was emotionally and physically exhausted. I was feeling very depressed and wanting to stop existing. I had some disturbing internal dialogue that made me realize I needed to get out of my room and do something. I still wasn’t feeling well, but I made myself get out of bed. I determined it would be better to get up and binge and purge than to self-harm in that state of mind.

I came out to the living room and ordered Chinese food I can’t actually afford. I spent money set aside for future bills. However, I feel like it was necessary.

I shouldn’t have to choose between paying my bills or cutting my own fingers off…

Tomorrow, I am supposed to hear more about the partial hospitalization program. Depending on how long they say I need to wait, I may go back to the hospital and demand to be admitted. I am afraid of my own thoughts.

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The one place I felt sane

I have realized that the one place where I feel truly sane is inside the walls of the psych ward.

Why?

I’m not sure.

I looked around at the other patients and thought to myself, “I’m not like them.”

I remembered this thought today while I was purging and thinking, “I’m not really bulimic.” (I’ll explain that one on another post.)

I think I have a denial problem.

But seriously, sitting in the hallway yesterday waiting to be released and watching some of the other patients, I felt very, very sane. I don’t know how to describe the feeling.

I’ve also come to realize that, when I want/need to, and I don’t have evidence contradicting me, I’m very good at convincing others that I’m sane, intelligent, wise, collected, a great leader, so on and so forth.

And yet, when I’m home, I feel anything but.

I tried using a potato peeler to cut my skin off earlier in the week. I’ve considered cutting the fat from my body, I’ve tried stabbing myself. I’ve thought of jumping from buildings and bridges, walking in front of moving cars, and tried various ways to kill myself.

I thought repeatedly of putting a sharp knife down my throat last week to prevent myself from eating or binging and purging. I frequently have visions of being mutilated or killed. My mind is filled with horrible images I am afraid to tell others.

I live in chaos.

I hide it well.

I so often feel legitimately insane.

Until I went to the psych ward. Then I felt sane. Oh, so sane.