Fear
It's been a few weeks since my last post. I have started multiple drafts but I feel like for a time I had exhausted all the things that had been on my mind. It's about now that I am regretting not journaling every day because recalling everything significant that happened recently will be a challenge. It has been a dark few weeks. I don't really even feel comfortable sharing quite how dark. I am kinda frustrated because I haven't been able to put what I want to into words. I think the real issue is I don't know what it is I want to put into words. I think the things that need to be shared require a level of vulnerability that I haven't been able to achieve yet in writing. Hell, I have barely got to that point with a small handful of people at all, and those moments are blurry in my memory, but also unforgettable. An episode of this elevated vulnerability occurred recently and it sorta coincides with something I have talked about before: fear.
It started the Friday before I left for a camping trip about a week and a half ago. The week leading up to then had been...flat. My lows were especially low and I had engaged in some harmful behaviors of which I had not yet disclosed to my team. I was afraid to do so. I was also being bothered by regular intrusive and ruminated thoughts about dying. I was becoming very anxious and being home alone for the majority of the day to battle with my own head was not helping. I honestly just wanted to talk to someone about it so I emailed my therapist and ask her if we could check in that day in program. After she told me we could, thoughts of self doubt and shame began to shower over me, quickly causing me to regret asking for the extra support. They told me that I had no real reason to be wasting her time with something as stupid as what I was struggling with. By the time I was walking into the office I was completely unsure of my initial motive for reaching out. I sat down on the couch not knowing what I wanted to say and feeling incredibly self absorbed. When she asked what was up I said the only thing I could think of saying to open up our brief conversation: that I could't stop thinking about dying. Apparently what was to me just an annoying and distracting series of thoughts was quite concerning to others from the outside. We proceeded to have a conversation to gage the severity of the pervasive thoughts. I also came clean out my behaviors earlier that week. Once I had stated everything that I had really planned to say, I voiced that I was worried that it wasn't a big deal and I was exaggerating my need for support. She validated my choice to come to her and she thanked me for doing so. I'd say there was a great deal of fear coming from both parties in the room during that time. She expressed her fear for my safety over the weekend. I explained to her that it was probably for the best that I was going camping and wouldn't be left to my own devices for nearly any time at all.
It feels almost wrongly good to have people concerned about me. And once they are, one of the things that scares me the most is that once I no longer give them a reason to worry about me, they will forget about me altogether. Logically, I know that this isn't the case according to people telling me differently. Still, it doesn't make it easy to forget a belief you have held for as long as you can remember.
Anyway, I signed a safety contract for precautionary measures and was off to the rest of programming. I shared, reluctantly so, about my struggles with these thoughts to the rest of the group of clients during process at the end of the day, where, again, I was fearful and practically humiliated for having and sharing about these particular feelings. I thought I would be judged even though if I were hearing someone else sharing the same thing I know I was only want to surround them with compassion and support. I shared this in the last few minutes of group so it wasn't long before dinner and I was on my way home for the evening. Once home, my mom expressed concerns about allowing me to go on the camping trip and whether or not my health was good enough to ensure I wouldn't collapse in the heat of the day. I knew it wasn't the most ideal environment for me at the time, but I insisted it was better than having me stay home all weekend to inevitably lay in bed and sulk in my thoughts. So, I ended up going on said camping trip, and while I could go off on a tangent explaining everything that happened there, it wasn't all that eventful in the scope of this topic (aside from the heightened volume of my eating disorder voice as to be expected on a trip centered on food).
I shouldn't have been surprised that first thing Monday I was summoned to a joint session with my therapist and my dietitian, something they don't normally do to commend you at all your successes. Exactly how that meeting went is kind of lost to me. I know I was asked a series of questions to the tune of seeing how I thought I was be able to continue at this level of care. My deteriorating mood had led back to the discussion of residential treatment. Let me tell you, I wanted nothing more than to stay at CFD. I wanted nothing more than for that option to be off the table, but what I was hearing from my team, my parents, even my doctor, was that they couldn't help me anymore. This terrified me. My head immediately started sending of every alarm related to my core fear. All my favorite people were going to send me away and, according to my misperception, all my support would disintegrate my the time I got back. I could barely come up with words. I felt angry and sad and betrayed. Most of all I felt scared. I didn't know how much I felt these things until I went into process group almost immediately after leaving session. In this process group I first witnessed two people whom I love dearly experience such deep sorrow that I couldn't help but begin to cry. My tears were only amplified in the conversation that followed which began with me being asked how my session went. Now my emotions weren't released immediately upon being asked this, rather they came as those in the room uncovered the specific fears I had about being sent back to res, even naming those who I thought would forget about me and those I thought I was disappointing by needing more help. Somehow I ended up sobbing my eyes out for a good span of time.
I had never cried in group before and, as of today I have been in treatment for five months. It helped for sure, but the weight of being sent to Utah for residential still weighed heavily on my whole body. I was able to do my part in the next week to persuade those that I would do everything I could in order to stay in outpatient treatment. I have to put in the work because the ultimatums and threat of going are still hanging over my head. What is so difficult about this is that with every step I make in the right direction there are voices in my head telling me that by taking care of myself, I am pushing away those surrounding me with love. That by making strides in my recovery I am actively cutting those people out of my life. I am trying to unlearn this and talk back to those voices, but it only can come with time and resilience.
Glo
It started the Friday before I left for a camping trip about a week and a half ago. The week leading up to then had been...flat. My lows were especially low and I had engaged in some harmful behaviors of which I had not yet disclosed to my team. I was afraid to do so. I was also being bothered by regular intrusive and ruminated thoughts about dying. I was becoming very anxious and being home alone for the majority of the day to battle with my own head was not helping. I honestly just wanted to talk to someone about it so I emailed my therapist and ask her if we could check in that day in program. After she told me we could, thoughts of self doubt and shame began to shower over me, quickly causing me to regret asking for the extra support. They told me that I had no real reason to be wasting her time with something as stupid as what I was struggling with. By the time I was walking into the office I was completely unsure of my initial motive for reaching out. I sat down on the couch not knowing what I wanted to say and feeling incredibly self absorbed. When she asked what was up I said the only thing I could think of saying to open up our brief conversation: that I could't stop thinking about dying. Apparently what was to me just an annoying and distracting series of thoughts was quite concerning to others from the outside. We proceeded to have a conversation to gage the severity of the pervasive thoughts. I also came clean out my behaviors earlier that week. Once I had stated everything that I had really planned to say, I voiced that I was worried that it wasn't a big deal and I was exaggerating my need for support. She validated my choice to come to her and she thanked me for doing so. I'd say there was a great deal of fear coming from both parties in the room during that time. She expressed her fear for my safety over the weekend. I explained to her that it was probably for the best that I was going camping and wouldn't be left to my own devices for nearly any time at all.
It feels almost wrongly good to have people concerned about me. And once they are, one of the things that scares me the most is that once I no longer give them a reason to worry about me, they will forget about me altogether. Logically, I know that this isn't the case according to people telling me differently. Still, it doesn't make it easy to forget a belief you have held for as long as you can remember.
Anyway, I signed a safety contract for precautionary measures and was off to the rest of programming. I shared, reluctantly so, about my struggles with these thoughts to the rest of the group of clients during process at the end of the day, where, again, I was fearful and practically humiliated for having and sharing about these particular feelings. I thought I would be judged even though if I were hearing someone else sharing the same thing I know I was only want to surround them with compassion and support. I shared this in the last few minutes of group so it wasn't long before dinner and I was on my way home for the evening. Once home, my mom expressed concerns about allowing me to go on the camping trip and whether or not my health was good enough to ensure I wouldn't collapse in the heat of the day. I knew it wasn't the most ideal environment for me at the time, but I insisted it was better than having me stay home all weekend to inevitably lay in bed and sulk in my thoughts. So, I ended up going on said camping trip, and while I could go off on a tangent explaining everything that happened there, it wasn't all that eventful in the scope of this topic (aside from the heightened volume of my eating disorder voice as to be expected on a trip centered on food).
I shouldn't have been surprised that first thing Monday I was summoned to a joint session with my therapist and my dietitian, something they don't normally do to commend you at all your successes. Exactly how that meeting went is kind of lost to me. I know I was asked a series of questions to the tune of seeing how I thought I was be able to continue at this level of care. My deteriorating mood had led back to the discussion of residential treatment. Let me tell you, I wanted nothing more than to stay at CFD. I wanted nothing more than for that option to be off the table, but what I was hearing from my team, my parents, even my doctor, was that they couldn't help me anymore. This terrified me. My head immediately started sending of every alarm related to my core fear. All my favorite people were going to send me away and, according to my misperception, all my support would disintegrate my the time I got back. I could barely come up with words. I felt angry and sad and betrayed. Most of all I felt scared. I didn't know how much I felt these things until I went into process group almost immediately after leaving session. In this process group I first witnessed two people whom I love dearly experience such deep sorrow that I couldn't help but begin to cry. My tears were only amplified in the conversation that followed which began with me being asked how my session went. Now my emotions weren't released immediately upon being asked this, rather they came as those in the room uncovered the specific fears I had about being sent back to res, even naming those who I thought would forget about me and those I thought I was disappointing by needing more help. Somehow I ended up sobbing my eyes out for a good span of time.
I had never cried in group before and, as of today I have been in treatment for five months. It helped for sure, but the weight of being sent to Utah for residential still weighed heavily on my whole body. I was able to do my part in the next week to persuade those that I would do everything I could in order to stay in outpatient treatment. I have to put in the work because the ultimatums and threat of going are still hanging over my head. What is so difficult about this is that with every step I make in the right direction there are voices in my head telling me that by taking care of myself, I am pushing away those surrounding me with love. That by making strides in my recovery I am actively cutting those people out of my life. I am trying to unlearn this and talk back to those voices, but it only can come with time and resilience.
Glo
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