Last week was kinda rough.

Tuesday –
Mrs. Meriam — I don’t think she’s effective, but it’s a reason to get out of the house — told me that I don’t know how to care for myself and place others before me.
–  Same old song, different day.   I’ve been told that for over a year now.  At least I’m fortunate and she didn’t recommend any ‘inspiring’ Youtubes to watch.   I got enough of that at the House.
—  Look, I don’t mind her and think she’s pretty nice, but the whole cheerleader thing (you must have a PLAN!) doesn’t cut it with me.  If I had a PLAN, I would never be in the situation I am in now.  — a hot mess.
—  Anyways, I don’t know how to care for myself.   Check.  Whatever.

Joyce —  This one dispenses drugs and I get a strict 20 minute session with her.  Okay, I like her.   She’s more my style – quick, to the point, and plain spoken.   There’s no cheerleading or PLAN from this lady.  Joyce is more realistic than that.
—  Joyce said that if I keep going the path I’m on, I would probably find myself in another treatment center in about 6 months to a year for either bulimia or anorexia.  Joyce recommended intensive out-patient treatment and meeting with Meriam more than twice every two weeks.
—  The big red flag here was another treatment center… like the House.

Okay, the threat of a House scares me.  So, yeah, at the time, maybe the House was the best place for me… or the best place anyone could put me.  I (guess, although I’ll never admit it) that the anorexia was out of control.  The people who care for me felt that they had to do something… and that was, unfortunately, the best option.
—  I think the House left me scared for life.  Not the community living part of it, but the blatant disregard for personal space, wishes, and freedoms.  I was literally reduced to a child, fearing when any of the wardens (caregivers) spoke to me alone — especially the Boss Lady.
— Being who I am, I faced the fears and would often make suggestions through the (so-called) weekly suggestion folder.  I would carefully fill out the paperwork, attempt to make my handwriting readable… and nothing.  I received NOTHING back for the longest time.  No denials, no approvals… nothing… until I poked the bear – i.e. – my therapist (don’t get me started on that) to gain some sort of acknowledgement for my efforts… and, of course, the suggestions were 99% denied.  I think my only winner was allowing (yes, really) adding chocolate into milk to make… chocolate milk!  Ta-da!

Well, the one-two punch from the shrinks did exactly what they probably didn’t want me to do —  Binge on Cinnamon Toast Crunch..  By the way, how the heck does that cereal have 5 whopping grams of fat in it?     I can understand the fat in a cereal like Krave, but Cinnamon Toast Crunch?  I have no idea.

So…  I just have to, somehow, face this internal fear.  The fear of eating, of not eating… I’m not sure what it is, but I have to get over it.  Somehow…  I can’t get to be to large – least the arthritis makes my life unbearable… and I can’t get to small for my health…  Like Goldilocks, I’ve got to be just right.

What that actually means, I have no idea.
I need to figure it out quick.