The first time I went into treatment, in 2011, a staff member told me that I would never recover. That I would be a chronic case. I wanted so badly not to believe them. But now, 4 years later, I'm on my fifth stint in treatment. My second this summer. And I'm starting to realize they were right. Here I am. A chronic, albeit failing, anorexic. I mean seriously I've been out for a month and haven't lost a single pound. That's the worst thing I can imagine and it's true. Like I just don't know anymore. Part of me is pretty convinced that by now I'm just kinda a hopeless case. I have everything in the world. Except a normal home life. But more on that later. Meanwhile, I just can't seem to like myself. And obviously suck at feeding myself. I don't even know where this rant is going. I guess...I've lost my sight on recovery. Or the lack of its existence.
Onto a new topic. My family. My brother is going nuts. He freaks out about everything. And hits things. And threw his phone at the window and broke it. Then he climbed into the car trunk. And then he jumped out of the car, it was stopped , and ran away. So, needless to say, my treatment is definitely not first priority. Hence why I drag friends to support groups and not family members. It's not worth the effort.
At least my July 4th was decent though. My friend and I spent all day together and made blue cupcakes. I even ate pancakes. And yet I question why I haven't lost weight. Wow. My life is a joke.
Don't bother reading into any of this. Some things are just surface level.
Stay Strong
xo Aria
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