This is also Day 7. 7 consecutive days of eating. And I hate it. I’ve put on a few pounds and have already become paranoid about my jeans getting tight. I can’t stand it. I can’t do it. I won’t do it. Not now. I’m not ready. I accept that I should not get much thinner. I figure, lose just a bit more and then maintain at 126.
Rehab was rough. All the shitty feelings that I squashed with drugs are coming back. I foolishly admitted to feeling worthless and then wasted everyone’s time trying to explain the emptiness and self-loathing that have defined me for decades.
I’m a little scared, too. I recognize the flavor of my current anguish. I’ve felt it a few times in the last several years and each time it’s spiraled downward and culminated in a suicide attempt. I don’t want that right now. As convinced as I am that I will ultimately take my own life (I informed my individual counselor at rehab of this today), I want my children to be adults before I do so. I know it will still fuck them up, but they’ll be able to handle better, at least.