I'm starting to doubt if I'm going to achieve anything by being here. I've been inpatient for a week now. The first couple of days were okay, and I felt like I was making progress, but now, I feel worse than I did before the admission. Right now, I'm seriously considering giving up and going home. I'm just wasting a bed. It's not even a matter of wanting to go home, but feeling like I should.
I saw the psychiatrist again on Monday, and am seeing him again tomorrow. He was happy with the steps I've made – staying here for more than one night for the first time ever, leaving my room to smoke in the courtyard, even though I hadn't been to a group yet. His goal for for is to break the isolation and just be around human beings.
When mum's back, apart from seeing the psychologist, he wants me to try going out for a coffee or a walk somewhere quiet. I'm thinking of maybe just going for a drive down the coast. I don't think I can get out of the car. But even going more than a couple of kilometers away from home is more than I've done in months, and scary to think of now, even though I used to feel safe as long as I was in the car.
I don't know. I feel like I'm not achieving what's expected of me. The last few days, I've been even more isolated. I'm scared of all the people. I'm scared of the noise. I've barely moved from bed. I'm wondering why I'm even here and if I really want the help or not.
As soon as I go home, I'll be just as isolated again. I still won't be able to leave the house. I still won't have friends real life. It feels like I'm physically losing my voice. It can't get past my throat, and when it does, it's barely more than a whisper.
Yesterday during morning OBs I broke down into breathless tears when the nurse said it'd be good for me to go to groups. The psychiatrist is happy with me just being around people. Why isn't that enough? They tell me to focus on the achievements I've made, not the ones I haven't, but not everyone seems to agree.
I still say I'm fine, even when I'm so anxious and low I can't move, even when I'm in tears. I don't know why. I just can't say how I'm feeling.
Every day, I can't wait for my night meds to get here and for the day to be over.
I've been to a grand total of one group, art therapy on Monday. I'd asked a nurse if she could come get me and walk me to the group to make sure I got there.
We made stress balls out of balloons filled with flour and rice, which was ironically very frustrating. I'd get flustered when the balloons would pop, and people looked at me and laughed, which didn't help. Thankfully, I'd had an oxazepam before the group, and now have a purple and black striped stress ball.
I was going to go to yoga this morning, but woke up with a headache again, so am just taking it easy for now. I've been planning to get to one group a day this week, but haven't been able to do it.
I've still not had a conversation with any of the patients. They say hello in passing, and sometimes comment on my clothes, but that's about it. After a week, I don't think it's going to happen, and I'm too afraid to talk to them. Several new patients were admitted yesterday, and it's just made leaving my room harder. I'm scared of all the unfamiliar faces.
I haven't even been able to open my curtains the last few days, just enough to peek out into the courtyard and see how many people are out there before I venture forth. I hate hearing people talk and laugh. I hate hearing phones ring. I hate seeing them having visitors. It just reminds me how alone, isolated, and unloved I am compared to them.
I got a text from mum yesterday, after five days of radio silence. I've had no leave, no visitors, and no social contact outside of blogger. She's getting back later today, but I don't know if she's visiting or not. I sent her a list of a few things I need brought in, and told her to just leave them at reception if she doesn't want to visit. I'm not going to ask her to unless she actually wants to. If she wanted to know how I'm doing, she would've made contact, but she didn't.
I've also been walking a lot these past few days, just doing laps around the corridors. The other night, I couldn't sleep, and kept getting more and more distressed even after my night meds. So I threw on my ugg boots and walked for an hour. It's easier late at night when there's no one around.
I walk until my feet are blistered, my muscles and joints ache, my lungs burning. I asked for band-aids, and they had to check them first. I told the nurse I tried to tire myself out before asking for more meds, and she said I'm better to ask for meds first.
“It's also your eating disorder driving that too though” she said, poking my shoulder as she spoke
As soon as I had the band-aids, I was walking laps again. It seems that for every person who says I should exercise, for one reason or another, there are two saying I shouldn't.
It doesn't make me feel better because of 'endorphins' or any of that crap. It makes me feel better because I'm burning calories. When I don't exercise, the thoughts eat away at me until I do. That's the only relief it gives me. It's all just a numbers game.
It's just so novel to actually be able to walk and not just do step aerobics in the lounge room. That's one thing I'll miss, one thing I've always wished I could do but have never been able to – just walk! While I have the opportunity, I feel like I have to do it, because it's not something I can usually do. I have to walk for at least an hour. I have to reach at least 10,000 steps a day.
Earlier this week, they gave me the wrong breakfast. I smelt it as soon as they brought the tray in. I ordered wholemeal, as always, but they gave me fruit toast. Thanks to ED 'logic', it started a chain of negative thoughts. Breakfast here is my only safe meal, the only one I know I'll be able to eat.
I didn't say anything because I didn't want them to offer to bring me more food. It felt greedy. I took my coffee and went outside to have a smoke and cry, and eventually came back and ate the yoghurt.
There's a mobile cafe van that comes in the morning, so I've been able to get one proper coffee (admittedly with 4 shots) most days.
They also finally refilled the vending machine on Monday, after three days of no diet soda. Over the day, I guzzled down three overpriced cans of Coke Zero. I'm already dreading when it runs out again.
They had a fruit platter out after my disaster breakfast. I was late to the party though, and there was only one tiny piece of watermelon left, plus some oranges and grapes. I miss watermelon so much. Recently, I'd been getting through a melon a week at home as the bulk of my diet.