I'm in Eating Disorder treatment (again) and I need to be.

A follow up to a previous post about not needing ED treatment (spoiler: I was wrong), my relationship with my mother, not trusting my dietitian, diet culture, & my abusive mind: a fuckshow.

a painting by Chanelle Jefferson, who created a collection of work based on my writing. Her collection “Meet Me in the Messy Middle” could not more accurately depict what I imagine my mind would look like as art. view the collection here.

A note before you read this newsletter: My Monday Messy newsletters normally contain bulletpoint tips, recommendations, journaling prompts based on the seasonal theme (this season the theme is accepting parts of self). I will not be giving my normal tips + suggestions today. My Eating Disorder (ED) voice is loud, my depression is at a 9, and I have no business offering you advice right now. This story is heavy on ED treatment and the absolute fuckshow that are the thoughts in my head. If that’s of no interest to you, that’s A-fuckin-ok. Otherwise, welcome to my brain, which is currently, what I like to call, an unfinished Jackson Pollock painting (or maybe a Chanelle in the making? that sounds way more delightful).

It sounds like you’re having a lot of trouble with trust. And it sounds like your eating disorder.

Several weeks ago I wrote a piece about being in eating disorder treatment (again) and doubting my need to be there. Since then, it has become rapidly apparent that I absolutely need to be there. And as the tiny, 1% of me suspected, the 99% of me that believed I didn’t need treatment was 100% my eating disorder.

The resistance, mistrust, and doubt is my eating disorder clinging on for dear life. She knows her existence is in danger, and she is not going down without a fight.

Last week I was talking to my mom on the phone about this resistance. I know that moving through this resistance is how I take one more step towards recovery. That to stay the course of life sans-ED I have to open up the mistrust. I have to crack open the doubt and find what’s underneath—what’s been buried away, and what my eating disorder thinks she’s keeping safe by staying closed.

“Mom, it’s just like, I want to commit to this process but I don’t fucking trust my dietitian. Like, I know rationally that what she tells us isn’t untrue, and for some reason I still have so much willfullness to everything she says. I even binged on ice cream one night to the thought, see, I can’t keep binge foods in the house cos this is what happens. I literally ate the ice cream to spite her.”