So...I had an appointment with Page, my dietician, this morning. But before that..

OK, so in the first beginning, I actually woke up at 10 AM. Can you believe it? Usually I'm getting to bed at around 8 AM, so waking up at 10 is huge for me...and I managed to get to bed at 4 AM. Way early for me, these days. Page says that malnutrition (not to mention my bones poking every which way) is the sleep-robbing culprit.

So I was already feeling pretty good about waking up at actually 9:58 AM and beating my alarm. Go me. Then I walk in the hall to the den and say good morning to Gramma, who comes and gives me a sweet ol' hug. Aww. I complain about her, but I know she just wants the best for me. Me love my babushka.

So we talk for a bit--she asks me what I'm going to do about school and what I have planned for the day. I didn't mind her inquisition so much, even though she asked a tonne of questions. Normally I would've been mad annoyed, but I felt pretty calm for some reason...i guess because she was doing it in such a non-threatening way.

She told me that I'll need to apply for as many credit cards as I can so we can afford any future hospitalisations for me...'cause, as you know, I was given the edict to gain or be hospitalised.

So I get together my stuff so I can, you know, hie me hence to my appointment and later school...I walk in the den, and Gramma gives me a hug and says that we're gonna get through this...In the back of my head, I'm thinking "Yeah, right," 'cause I figure I'm probably going to die, one way or the other, but why burst her bubble?

Then...it happened.

My Gramma started crying.

I mean, wtf? My Gramma NEVER cries. In my 23 years, I think I maybe saw her cry one other time, and I'm not even sure about that.

But she f*n started sobbing...saying how muich it hurt her to see me "waste away to nothing, just bones"...

Wtf? I can't see it...yeah, sure, I have lost a pound or two, yay me, but "nothing"? "Bones"? OK, yeah, well, I mean, even I can see the bones, but...it still doesn't seem like I've gone all that far, you know? I mean, I've been in treatment with girls much thinner.

But, yeah. My heart hit absolute zero. I made my Gramma cry. Great. Way to go, Sara.

I'm skipping ahead a bit--I thought about it on the way home--just what am I accomplishing with this? Yay, I've lost a lot of weight. I'm wearing double zeroes. Woo-hoo. And? What's so fucking great about that? I don't see anyone handing me a trophy like it's some great accomplishment. My "trophy" is a malnourished, dying body, and a sucky quality of life. Not to mention Gramma's tears.

I guess this is hitting her harder than I've realised. I've spent a lot of energy being pissed at her every time she tries to force me to eat something.

There's a lot of shit she could have done...she could have kicked me out of the house by now. I've been really blessed and fortunate that she's even continued to stick by me at all. Especially after some of the stunts I've pulled...

But, anyway, back to Page.

I filled her in on what's going on...some of it actually pleased her, like me drinking the Propel and such. We went back and forth and she started shaking her head when she started talking about a hospitalisation weight--she said I might be at it right now. She asked me what I got the last time I weighed myself, and I told her, and she shook her head. She said that was way too low, and that I'd lost 2 pounds a week in the 3 weeks since I'd last seen her, and that that was dangerous. She said that if I kept losing at that rate, they'd had no choice but to hospitalise me, that it was dangerous for me to be walking around even like I am now. She begged me to just maintain my weight, or at the very least to drink a Boost or Ensure a day. I said I was willing to try...and maybe I am. We have a tonne of Boost here because Gramma drinks it and she tries to get me to drink some.

Then Page weighed me because she wanted to do some new measurements to determine for sure what the hospitalisation weight for me should be. I love that about her--she doesn't just grab some weight off a chart--she does your body fat percentage and weight and gives you your own personalised reading. She took my body fat percentage...I'm scared to know what it is...and she said she'd make the calculations and then call my therapist once she had a weight.

Now. That action either screwed me or saved me.

When my therapist told me to gain a certain amount by next session, it was based off my old ideal body weight. Now, according to Page's new calculations, OK, sure, I'm still underweight, but...it might give me some hospitalisation leeway...or, it could screw me totally, and determine that I should have been in the hospital last week. So we'll see.

When I got back to my car after the session I checked to see what my professors' appointment hours are..I'd missed most of them, so that was bad. I was thinking of going to British lit class today, but it turns out it's reading week so no classes.

I decided to just come home, e-mail my professors and explain my situation and ask for incompletes...and maybe try and go to school early Thursday and Friday to talk to them in person and show them any needed paperwork. The fact is, I'm tired, and I don't feel like walking 6 miles round trip to class. I wouldn't even feel like catching the subway and doing a bit of walking. I don't feel like walking around campus, even though I feel I need the exercise (despite the fact that I'm on exercise restriction, shh). But I have my diet pills...and actually, I don't even need them for a workout. I don't know how to explain it...I have the energy, I guess...but there's something about school. Like I'm afraid to go and be seen. I nearly get a panic attack just thinking about it. I will try and make ballet tomorrow and I'll have to talk to my instructor and break down and tell her about the anorexia...like she couldn't figure it out already.

I'm exhausted. It hurts just sitting here in this chair. I'ma put my PJs on and maybe curl up later with a good book.

Doing OK today emotionally...but, instead of the good book, maybe I'll just try and get some sleep.

I feel as though I've screwed up everything, and that now it'd be such a difficult enterprise to try and pull it all together. And part of me doesn't want to die...I mean, damn everybody else, at this point, right now I'm thinking of my Gramma, and just based on her tears today...it occurred to me how much that shit would affect her.

I mean, a-fucking-year ago, she watched her sister waste away and die...and even though I hate to admit it, I guess I am doing the same damn thing.

Oh, and you can't get double zeroes everywhere, unfortunately. Actually, try hardly anywhere. But Abercrombie has them. I think American Eagle might, too. GAP used to, I thought...I haven't seen it lately. :rolls eyes:

Another aside: Page told me to think of my potassium pills as my heart medication, because that's essentially what they are. Way to make a girl feel 60 years old, Page! Heh.

Speaking of which, I really should schedule an appointment with my doctor...both for sleeping pills and maybe an EKG--odd things going on now with my heartbeat. And the sleeping pills I might actually use before I...well, you know. Use them. Though this morning gave me hope with my sleep patterns.

But, yeah, back to Gramma. I feel pretty bad about all that. I told Page about it. She asked me if I'm going to use that as motivation to start doing what I need to do. I want to. I do want to eat and be normal. But...the weight stuff...

She asked me why the weight stuff is a big deal for me, if obviously I'm at an unhealthy weight. She said I'm near some minimum weight for something, but I can't remember what exactly. So of course I'm wondering what that minimum is and if I can have it as a goal...stupid, I know. And she asked me my goal weight, and I told her honestly that I don't have one. Goals are pointless because it will never be enough. I told her that I just kind of wanted to ride this out and see where it went...

What minimum could she have been talking about? I guess the minimum before I'm hospitalised and tube fed or something. I guess I'm at a hospitalisable weight, but maybe not exactly at the bare minimum? I don't know.

If people shouldn't be this thin, then why do they make clothes for us this size?

Then again, maybe the juniors section isn't exactly designed for adults. I don't know. I don't know anymore.

I'm not sure what to think anymore.

I want to trust my treatment team...but if they could see what I see when I look into the mirror...

I know, Cam..."When I look into the mirror..."

Yeah, I know.

But I'm not crazy...OK, so I am...but I know what I see. Aside from baggy size zeros I can take off without unbuttoning...:er:

Yeah. This is getting kind of pathetic, huh?

I'm sick of this shit. Sometimes I wish I could erase thes past few years. Maybe. Partly it terrifies me, but...go back to being slightly overweight, but actually having a future. I usually don't look back and have regrets and wonder what things would have been like if I had done them differently...but I wonder what it would've been like if I'd gone to Loyola or University of Chicago or Dartmouth or wherever else? If I had stayed in Oregon and continued at Portland? Or transferred to Reed? What if I had moved to Washington? Hell, I practically lived in Washington anyway, hanging out over there in the canyon with friends. Portland is right on the border, anyway.

Well, it's a little late now for all that, but what if I take a huge risk? Let go of grasping so tight-fistedly to this tenuous so-called control of my weight? Just let go? What will I be saying months from now as I look back? Will I even be around to look back?

It hurts.

Page suggested that I pretended I'm already hospitalised in a way and say, "OK, I have to eat."

Part of me is afraid that even in the hospital, I'll still fight eating. I've never really done that before...before when in treatment I always complied and accepted the "permission" to eat.

But now it feels different...like I truly can't eat if purging it isn't an option. Like I'm dead set against nourishing myself despite any "permission." It's like, the only permission I have is to be under a certain weight...and right now that weight is I think 5 pounds away.

Yeah, I know. I keep pushing it away. I say, "oh, another 5-10, then I promise, it'll be different."

I'm so full of shit.

I'm losing it.

And I'm thinking about trying to fool the scale until I can lose another 10. Maybe water-loading, wearing small weighty things to weigh-in days.

But I still might not have that luxury...my fate may already be decided.

I've found a handy reducing equation...all the issues in my life are cast aside and boiled down to this neat little weight package. I wonder what it all means.

i don't care about not being able to figure out just the right chord for the song I was working on. I don't mind that I can't perfectly fingerpick that new tune. I don't care that the flying spiccato section in the Khakaturian isn't going as planned. I don't give a damn about the triplets and double-stops in the Bruch. I don't give a shit about my turns and promenades, and damn my battements. Who cares about my need for new acrylics, my lovely watercolour set not getting use, my pastels lying to the side, my camera outfit sitting unused? Who gives a shit about hundreds and hundreds of books here in my room, of class assignments and calculus equations for fun being kicked to the side?

I don't.

Or at least, you sure couldn't tell it from my actions.

I used to be alive. Passionate.

I used to be creative. I used to write about more than this one-dimensional shit.

I used to be someone.

Where the hell am I, again?

I used to repeat to myself, "The thinner is the winner."

Some fucking prize I've won.

Yeah, you tried to tell me. And I already knew the answer. But I didn't care. And maybe I still don't.

But I feel like I should

I guess it doesn't matter who doesn't love me, not like this

Yes, I'm still OK--

but that statement's still my truth.