What do you do after you’ve promised to tell the truth? You’ve promised to not fall back into this. Then suddenly, you realize you can’t tell the truth. You can’t tell because it’s your secret. If you tell, they will try to help you and you don’t want help. You don’t want counseling. You don’t want people getting angry and not understanding. You don’t want people accusing you of trying to get attention. You don’t want people to question how completely insane you really are. All you want is for someone to hold you and tell you that you’re going to be okay. You’re going to make it and all the pain is going to go away.
Every week I have to go to the school counselor. It started with an eating disorder but then we realized it was a lot more complicated than that. I have an anxiety disorder, eating disorder, and no one is exactly sure what else. I promised my school counselor I would tell her the truth this year at all times, so she can help me. I’m supposed to be recovering and I don’t want to explain to her that I’ve been regressing for weeks now. I haven’t had an appointment in 3 weeks because we’ve both been busy, but I have one tomorrow. She’s going to ask me how all the stress has affected my recovery and I will sugar coat it as best as I can to ensure she won’t call my parents. The truth is that my recovery is turning more into a relapse than a recovery. Every second of every day I think about food and losing weight. I come from school and sob because I’m exhausted and unsure of everything that is going on. I dream of dying and imagine of how nice it would be to leave this all behind. I force myself to throw up when I screw up my diet and I weigh myself every day. I promise to hurt myself everytime I upset or disappoint an adult and sometimes actually end up cutting myself. I cry myself to sleep because I’m never good enough and spend forever before school using makeup to cover the bags that have formed under my eyes. I walk into school and put a smile on my face, I laugh more than my friends, and I never let it be known what I’m really going through. No one knows I’m slowly dying. I keep telling myself it will get better, I know it will, but I hate feeling so alone.