Effing psychiatrist. Mental healthcare workers in general really need to mind their words. Now that’s said, I’ll move on to the actual explanation.
At my last therapy appointment, we discussed a conversation the therapist had in length with the psychiatrist. The therapist misunderstood something I said, which led the doctor to suggest that I was either under-reporting caloric intake or purging more than I admitted. To me, that sounded like an accusation. I will *not* report anything to the therapist or the doctor that is inaccurate. I won’t waste their time or mine for that. I told the therapist that there was ONE DAY when I only ate 300 calories. She told the doctor I was doing that every day, and he told her I’d be dead. Really, doctor? Are you sure about that? *sarcasm* She said the explanations he was giving her about electrolytes and various blood levels made sense. Really? Shocking, no? *more sarcasm* This is beginning to sound like children at play.
Unfortunately, it also feels like a challenge. It feels like they’re telling me to be a better bulimic. I know with absolute certainty that that is not the message they were sending. The completely-illogical-reason-I-am-already-effed-up part of my mind says otherwise, though. I was already struggling to counteract those thoughts. Now they seem to have reinforcement from the very people who were helping me.
I told the therapist in no uncertain terms that the conversation irked me. She said it was more a problem on her behalf– that she didn’t know what she was supposed to keep up with, so she couldn’t answer the doctor’s questions about my cycle of eating. So here I sit, 99 calories taken in over the past twelve hours or so, trying to convince myself that this should not bring me back to the abyss I was crawling out of and failing miserably in that regard.
Yup– effed up.