… sometimes takes more courage than to continue a fight.
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Sometimes it makes more sense to submit than to lose everything by fighting a battle you’re not equipped enough to survive.
That won’t please the shiny miracle brigade. Those who remarkably manage to cling to a hope that pays off once in a very blue moon. I’m not saying anything is impossible, just that suggesting that holding out hope can sometimes be a little like burying your head in the sand.
Believe me, this isn’t an easy thing to write on a blog referencing hope in the title; a blog whose very essence was supposed to be hope. A place which might offer encouragement to others, and help deepen understanding about the struggle of recovery, insight into the world of mental health and eating disorders.
However, it would be dishonest to spout rubbish about a recovery that I haven’t yet made. This is where I find myself; admitting defeat. I’ve had to have an honest look at No Man’s Land and an inventory of my fire power tells me that I need to regroup in order to stay alive.
I am being admitted to an ED inpatient unit on Monday. The admission is for a month, at least, so that they can prevent organ failure and minimise the risk of death that is posed by my current BMI. (Body Mass Index, for those who may not know, is a calculation of relative body mass and height, which gives an indication of where an individual is in terms of the healthy weight range of 20 – 25).
I’m lying in the trench, a little wounded and very weary. It has taken guts to submit. I’m losing the battle in the hope that I might still win the war. If I carry on fighting, there’s absolutely no chance.
Tipped out and raked through, the innards of handbag look like an Emin – style installation.
I could write more about this, but this isn’t really the place for theorising about what does and doesn’t constitute a work of art.
I’m focused on one particular thing (though I may list or photograph the contents of my bag for those whose curiosity has been inexplicably peaked).
Amidst the clutter, the handbag holds the main thrust of my last weekly appointment at the Eating Disorders Unit. A folded piece of crumpled paper. A list, scrawled by my clinician in desperation: “Reasons to Increase Weight”.
Turns out that the essence of this list can’t permeate the tan leather of my bag. It isn’t going in.
Which brings me here. Perhaps the skin on my fingertips is more permeable? (I jest)
I want to increase my weight:
- To prevent my organs from packing up
- So I’m not hungry all the time
- To have more energy
- To be able to write
- To be able to get a life?
- To be able to eat out again.
They’re pretty broad… but it’s hard to think about the possibility of ever being well, especially when the illness has eaten so much of your brain; Worse, your hope.
I’m getting nearer that piece of land between two warring factions. The Anorexia versus Team ED. I should be in there somewhere… perhaps a third party divided between the camps. But I’m not.
Truth is, I’m lost at this point in time. The daylight is fast fading, the guiding lights are all extinguished and I’m stumbling through no man’s land clinging onto a crumpled list of reasons.
I’ve seen it all.
A Thomas the Tank Engine Multivitamin Advent Calendar.
Somebody shoot me.