I am about to give it my last shot at recovery. Recovery from anorexia and depression. It still seems ludicrous to even refer to myself as having those diagnoses but they seem to have been ascribed to be for the past 21 years now and maybe it's time for me to stop running and hiding from reality and to truly give this recovery thing one last shot. In just over 3 weeks I am being admitted to a psychiatric ward and an ED day programme. I am petrified. Do I want to go? Not at all. But I have little choice: staying as I am will ultimately lose me my job, and likely before the end of the year. Which means losing my flat. Which means losing so much that is important to me, and devastating those around me. Most of the time I don't care, after all, if the choice was solely based on what *I* wanted, without any impact on anyone else, I'd be dead by now. But I don't have this luxury so I need to give this a shot for those who seem to care about me. And put my fears and terrors to one side.
I want to document this journey, wherever it takes me, because even if I end up right back where I am now, I want to have some tangible proof of what each step was like, whether it be forwards or backwards. I want to give myself some focus for each day and a place to keep track of this, even if it ends up being one sentence. I don't want to give up on this as I have done with pretty much everything in my life at present.
23 days and it begins. 23 days of calm? How many stormy days? And will I really look back on these 23 days as being 'calm'?
99.99999999999999999999% of me is hopeless. But there is that tiny smidgen of trust in others around me that brings an even tinier smidgen of hope that maybe, just maybe, something could be different. *I* could be different.
Until tomorrow.....
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