I’ve had plenty of evidence over the last several years demonstrating to myself and others how generally fucked up I am. Every once in a while, something comes out of the blue that reinforces it in such a way that I am shocked by my twisted thinking.
Tonight, while I was waiting in Penn Station after rehab, an old friend called me. He told me a friend of ours from high school committed suicide on Christmas. I was shocked by my gut reaction to the news (“I’m so happy for him. He must have been truly suffering and now he’s at peace.” and “I am so envious of him and the fact that he was able to pull it off.”). Then, I couldn’t control these feelings, I immediately asked my friend how he did it. My friend didn’t know but, being aware of my own history of failed suicide attempts, quickly became concerned about why I wanted to know.
And right before that phone call, I binged and purged on pizza. I have thrown up in the bathroom in Penn Station now more times than I can recall. I don’t want to give up my eating disorder. It’s the only thing I have left that makes my life even remotely tolerable.
I’m really OK with being this fucked up though. I mean, I’ve been like this for a very long time. I accept it and am comfortable navigating life in this way.