
The other day I’m on the phone with my therapist.
“How’s your eating?” She asked – after we covered the mundane and I had no other drama to manipulatively fill the time.
“Better,” I said. “I’m diggin’ outta anorexia part 2. I weigh XXX. Put on some pounds in Mexico on that bachelorette.”
I hear her *harumph* on the phone. (And if you don’t know that sound – familiarize yourself with it immediately.)
“That’s not enough.”
I feel that growing flicker of annoyance in the pit of my stomach. “It’s fine.”
It’s FINE. LEAVE ME ALONE. ALL OF YOU – LEAVE ME ALONE.
“And you were …. how much did you weigh when you were in treatment?”
I tell her. “I don’t want to still be that though. I wasn’t even active then. They wouldn’t let me do shit so it wasn’t fair to say that’s accurate – I knew I’d lose a little. That was 3 years ago.”
“Regardless,” she says. “You’re still xxx off.”
“Yep,” I agree – ornery as eating disorders can be. “Yep, maybe. You might just be damn right.”
WHATCHU GONNA DO ABOUT IT, I want to say.
Instead, I wait.
A chess play. Always a chess play with eating disorders.
“So, what are you gonna do about your meals this week, now that you’re not on vacation?” She asks – which irks me.
WAIT, thought I was CONTROLLING this dialogue.
“Dunno,” I say, nonchalantly. “Do what I’m doing.”
“Skip meals?”
“I’m not. I’m gaining weight. I’m figuring it out.”
“But you’re not making it a priority.”
“That’s fair,” I said. “I don’t care if I gain weight or not. I’d be fine if I stayed this forever.”
“But you know you can’t sustain that?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe,” she says. “Maybe isn’t good enough.”
“Maybe is all that I got sometimes.”
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