what you think. It still won't matter, but it's an

interesting sort of study nonetheless.

So what?

So.

The edict has been passed by the therapist,

who is in cahoots with my doctor and dietician.

I will gain 2 pounds by Friday, April 16th,

or I will be hospitalised.

*snicker*

How the hell they'll manage to hospitalise me

sans any insurance on my part is beyond me, but

Judi-Lee says we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.

Call me a big fuckin' brat, but I don't wanna!

Shit.

How the hell did this happen?

I'll have to be very careful.

Yeah, I could try to actually gain the weight,

but according to the National Association of

the Brotherhood of No Fucking Way,

that shit's Not Going To Happen.

Nunh-unh.

I know the idea is for me to make progress here,

and I have to admit, part of me wants to.

It's like Judi-Lee said--I wouldn't have come back

after she closed out my file if part of me at least

didn't want to live.

Shit.

She says I'm her "worst-off" client, and that she's

scared I'll die and all that...

That's she's not going to sit up and watch me die...

we had a very mixed-up, jumbled allovertheplace kind of

session.

I was loopy from no sleep and writhing around on her

couch in physical pain and laughing like a hyena

intermittently and laming her out at intervals and she

said it was great to see me like that, because usually I

was so serious and such a pain in the ass for her!

I cackled madly and fell over on her couch.

That's about when she mentioned that I was her most severe

client, and I threw my arms up and went, "Woo-hoo!" half-jokingly

and she burst out laughing with me.

*sigh* It was kind of nice in that taking-the-edge-off-the-seriousness kind of way.

That's when she got serious.

She asked, "What are we gonna do with you?"

I was like, "Huh?"

She said, "Sara, you look a right mess."

I said, "Huh?"

She said, "If I'm going to continue seeing you outpatient, we'll have to have a weight contract."

I balked. What the fuck? Weight contract?

I'd never had one of those in outpatient treatment before...except that one time. But even then, I'd never had to gain in outpatient.

Holy mother fuck.

She told me the rules.

Oh, and I told her about the suicide stuff and gave her

the bloody date I'd had in mind.

I don't think I'll be getting any sleeping pills out of

Dr. Banks anytime soon, but I might shimmy out a way.

And Judi-Lee said, "Oh, OK, well, if you don't gain the weight by next session I'll just schedule your appointment until after your date has passed."

I said, "What?! You know what, never mind, I'm not going to go through with it..."

She was like, "Oh, you're talked out of suicide that quick, huh?"

We went back and forth, and then I tried to negotiate with her on a weight.

"Sara! I will NOT go along with an adult weighing 80 pounds! No way, no how!"

"Well...how about 85?"

"Nope. No way. I'm going to talk to Page and discuss what your healthy range is, 'cause you're sure not in it."

"Fuck."

I can't even get away with fucking maintaining!

And Judi-Lee DOES NOT PLAY.

I'm fucked...

Unless...

I eat.

God forbid.

And eat enough to...uh...shit

GAIN 2 pounds

(fuck)

and i'm not allowed to up my exercise, which is restricted to virtually nil anyway...

-fuckity-

well...you know what? I'm just going to have to get smart.

I get weighed in clothes. Water-loading won't work--she's hip to that one. She weighs you at the end of the session.

No way I could hold my pee.

She makes you take your jacket and shoes off...and if I wore stuff with obvious pockets, she'd make me empty them...

I don't want to have to put stuff in, um, body orifices...

I could eat a whole bunch right before session...but that would freak me OUT

shit.

i guess i'll have to fill my pockets with stuff...

damn.

How fucked is this?

I finally have PERMISSION to eat,

and i can't even run with it.

If I got hospitalised at this point, my ass would be on the damn tube.

Believe it or not, I'm not so sure I want to go--

I mean, hell, I'm sitting here plotting how to avoid my weight loss being detected.

Oh, fucking get over it, Sara, and eat a damn burrito.

This shit ain't cool, it ain't cute, and frankly, I'm sick of it.

But it's like, I can't let go yet. I haven't gone far enough.

It's like I'm seeing just how close to the edge I can get like some daft turkey.

*snort*

I don't know what to say anymore.

Oh, I went and saw my boss today--that was awesome. I saw my high

school counsellor, too...and Ryan. Long story and all, but they all

got the notion I was saying goodbye...and after my session, I actually felt a little better so I wasn't saying goodbye, not completely.

You know? Well, Ryan's moving to DC so I actually *was* saying goodbye to him...he said we'll see each other again, though...and he'd hardly look at me. Damn. Is it that bad, really? I hadn't seen him since about February, though...

I got a flat tyre on the way home. I'm exhausted so my uncle is changing it for me now, the sweetie. I can change a tyre with the best of them but I'm simply too tired...potassium still dropping, so I'm mighty weak. I kept berating myself whilst I was driving...I don't want to pass out at the wheel--it just wouldn't be bloody fair to other motorists. Somehow, I couldn't push myself to do it even then. Stupid selfish bloody mindset. Sucks to me, and bah on my brain.

OK, I'm really tired now. I'm going to go try...

bah. he says my spare's flat, too. Oh, well. I wasn't going anywhere else anyway...except maybe McDonald's. *mischievous glint in eye*

Carrie is so awesome. Vicki is so fucking wise. Cam sings me

lullabies, and now I hope I can drift off to sleep...