Waiting

Waiting for a phone call that hopefully won’t come.

Waiting for the next appointment with my GP (Monday).

Waiting to see my psychiatrist (Monday).

Waiting, and quietly wishing, that my electrolytes will end up out of whack, I’ll have a heart attack, and that I’ll just drop dead. Over. Gone.

My GP was blunt. Kind, caring, and supportive, but blunt. The ED is entirely out of control. Obs, blind weighing, bloods, and ECG to be done every week until I can increase my food and fluid intake.

I’d be falling over and fainting if I weren’t already on meds to increase my blood pressure. The call that hopefully won’t come is from my GP. An after hours call telling me that my blood work is badly off and I need to go to the local hospital emergency department. It’s happened once before, and hopefully never again.

I’m to use Recovery Record¬†and log every single item I consume. I dread it. I don’t want a list of everything I’ve eaten and drunk in front of me. My GP is insistent. I think she’ll be woefully disappointed.

I don’t even feel like trying. I just want to curl up, fall asleep, and not wake up again. That’d be lucky though. My body, thus far, has been incredibly resilient, and I’m still alive despite nearly two decades of abuse in the form of eating disorder behaviours, self-harm, and overdoses.