I still can’t get over how well this drug replacement therapy works. I’m not quite getting the same antidepressant effect I was originally getting, but the fact that I have absolutely no cravings for opiates and no withdrawal symptoms does not cease to amaze me.
I was walking the dog earlier (I’ve got a very cute, very loving ‘pocket pit’ bull) and, for the first time since I got her a few weeks ago, I realized that I really love going outside and walking around with her. In addition to my own mental illnesses, my roommate has trouble with depression and eating as well. Sometimes, I worry that the dog will pick up on the negative emotions that sometimes flow freely in the apartment and get sick herself. I hope not. I guess my roommate and I would be attuned to it and notice if she were to start getting depressed or something.
I just got done skyping with my best mate in England. He got a chuckle out of my ‘too drugged up for an ED IOP, to anorexic for a substance abuse IOP’ conundrum. I lied to him and told him I was doing well. A couple weeks back, I promised him that I’d check myself into an ED clinic, if my weight dropped below 10 stone (140 pounds). He didn’t ask me my weight, thankfully, because it would have resulted in more lies. When I got on the scale this morning, I was 138, on the nose.
That puts my BMI at 19.2 so, I’m almost ‘officially’ underweight (18.5). I’m guessing that I’m not more than a week away from hitting that milestone. Yet, I feel fine. I know I’m constantly flipping back and forth between trying to make myself disappear and trying to make myself get help. I’m currently in the former stage. It’s killing me. Slowly. But, I have no doubt that it’s killing me. I’ve accepted it, though.
I suspect, that if I stay with my current doctor long enough, that I will recover. I just don’t know if we’ll catch it in time. I think it’s going to be a very close race between me dying and me getting better. I wish I cared more about myself. If I did, I would have almost certainly checked myself into an ED clinic by now. I know it’s kinda messed up, but I almost wish I would have a heart attack, or some other life-threatening event resulting from my anorexia, and survive. I think that would make me sit up and decide, once and for all, that I want to get better.