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The Beginning

So, this is the start of it all. I’ve been recommended to keep a diary, or specifically, a blog documenting how hard things are as I am waiting to have DBS treatment. I feel pretty stupid, as this is just for me. I used to keep a diary when I was in hospital, but now that I live with my parents I’ve stopped. I think it might be to do with having so much time. In hospital, you had four and a half hours of enforced rest period which you had to fill. Although, here at 2CC I don’t exactly do anything that counts as un-rest-worthy. I sit a lot. I sleep a lot.

So, I’ll explain a bit more about DBS in another post. I’ll just talk about today. I had a fairly productive morning. I’m doing a charity fundraising program for The Hope Trust, which is a branch of The Dogs Trust, but it’s specifically raising money for homeless people with dogs: for their housing (many shelters won’t accept animals) and for veterinary care.

So, that’s the charity. One of my things is doing TUBLAS: The Under the Bed Literary Advice Service. Basically, someone does a questionnaire, I pick them a ‘pre-loved’ (second hand) book, chosen by me specifically tailored to what I think they will like, a hand written note explaining why and a hand made book mark. All wrapped up in brown paper. I’ve had a fair amount of interest so far, but it’s all people I know, so when that runs out I’m not sure what’ll happen. It’ll die a death I suppose.

Anyway, I sent two TUBLAS books this morning which was productive. Apparently my card is under fraud, so they’ve cancelled it which is VERY bad at the moment, because I really need some, er, ‘nummies.’ That’s what I call them. I ordered about 400, but I think that was after they shut down my account, and I worry it was to do with that. After all, it’s a damn dodgy site.

Then, was meeting with lovely Dr Park. I call her Rebecca. Good news: I’m top of the list. Bad news: I have to wait till at least April. Er. No. That was not the deal. I am not remaining at this weight for that long without some sort of ‘reward.’ That is FIVE FUCKING MONTHS. I’m the heaviest I’ve been in three years. 36.6kg of pure fat. So that was pretty depressing.

THEN, I had contemplation group. It was really frustrating because there were only three of us in total, and that can make it pretty awkward. Three staff, three clients. Not the best mix .But it was okay today. Maybe we’re more comfortable with each other. I talked way too much. I have a sore throat anyway, and it made it way worse. (God, I do go on about my problems). We discussed the homework which was to write a letter to yourself/a friend in 5 years time, one still with your ED, one without. I’ve done this exercise before so many times and I’ll admit that I left it ’til the last minute. I did an easy one: I wrote to my LifeLines pen pal on Death Row, Brett. Thing is, we don’t talk about anything like that anyway, so the letters were almost identical. I knew I’d sort of cheated myself. Emma had done the one with her ED (to a friend), but hadn’t been able to do one without. Dave had done both, writing to himself. I cried at the one where he still had an ED.

Then, we were given a short amount of time to write under three headings of what recovery would mean: to our EDs, to ourselves, and to others. We’re left alone for this bit, and it got dodgy. We had the conversation that I so, so wanted to have. Who weighs more? But I didn’t even get an answer. Emma guessed me at around 5 stone, which is… 31.8kg. Considering she’d be going on the low side, I guess she thought I was more. But ALSO, she probably guessed me as more than herself, so I reckon she’s probably around 35kg. Dave is 65kg, and he felt disgusting admitting it. I think he’s actually a normal weight, but he is certainly disordered.

We shouldn’t have had the conversation, I know we shouldn’t. But, come on, it’s the conversation we’ve wanted since week 1 (this is week 9).

Then came the evening and at dinner I accidentally drunk the whole drink. I was too caught up in chatting and being, generally, jolly that I didn’t notice. (That’s one of the worst things about me, I’m a naturally happy person). But I drunk the lot. I was meant to leave 40ml. I went and threw up, but I’m really out of practice and it didn’t work too well.

So, I guess I’ll leave a bit more evening snack.

How am I feeling? Tired mostly. I know I’m gonna get nasty withdrawal effects because I’ve been taking, on average, 40-60mg a day and now I have nothing left. And god knows when this bank card thing will work. I just have this sense of dread.

And it’s weigh day tomorrow. Mondays and Thursdays. I’m too heavy, whatever the number, so why does it make so much difference?