I've been bulimic since 2005 when I was 14. I've hidden it well. Not so well that people haven't noticed my self harm / suicide attempt / general depression. So I got diagnosed with 'borderline personality disorder.' I've been sectioned and had several stays in hospital. I've always denied having any eating issues.
But the other day, aged 21, while my cheek was squished against my cheap green carpet before an ice cream tub full of vomit and that muscle in my chest was behaving strangely - that was when I decided to ring my mum and go "I have something to tell you"
Fast forward, fast forward, I find myself sat in front of an 'eating disorders specialist' in a city 2 hours from mine, and for the very first time in my entire life, I am honest. I am truthful. I am very articulate and confident about all my answers, except for the one to the question "What do you think of yourself?" to which I respond by bursting into tears.
SO, I tell her everything
Her response was to have me become an inpatient.
I was like "k, cool I'll stay in hospital." I've been in a mental hospital twice, for like a month, w/e, right? Agreeing to be in another is nothing... then she mentioned about my dads health insurance possibly only covering one month. (this is england, we don't typically have private healthcare but my dad has - anyway)
and how I had to be in treatment a lot longer. I was like sorry wut but - and the doctor was talking monthS to a YEAR.
Months. Year? What.
She asked if I'd like my parents to come into the room, I was like "Sure"
So they joined us, and didn't bat an eyelid at the amount of time I'd apparently be staying. Sorry what? I know they WANT me admitted, they packed an overnight bag for my appointment, but that's because they want me 'fixed' in the nicest way possible. But months!? When was this okay?!
So it's been agreed with my consent (and mild protest of wtf THREE meals AND three snacks a day with no purging wtaf) that I will be entering treatment in a city miles from home on Monday. In a way, I'm glad. Of COURSE I want my bulimia to go die in a fucking fire. But - I will be admitted to a house FULL OF ANOREXIC UNDERWEIGHT GIRLS.
I can't think about anything else other than how fat I'm going to feel - I know it's stupid but god, I cannot help it.
Oh yeah, and I'm 22 in < 3 weeks. HAPPY BIRTHDAY.
I'm at my cousins house now, were the same age, like sisters and share friends. Everyone's planning my birthday and I'm going to be in hospital.
I DON'T want people knowing I'm in treatment for bulimia. I don't want ANYBODY to know.
I'm already researching Glandular Fever so I can pretend to be absent for a while.
This is my first time in treatment, it's all new and scary and I just want someone who understands and is older and wiser to hold me and tell me it's all going to be okay.
I'm really freaking out.