Well That Didn’t Last

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.

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