I had ED therapy on Thursday, with A. It isn’t really therapy yet, more checking in sessions, but it was so good to see her. I feel very safe with her, which is quite unusual for me – it normally takes me quite a while to fall into safety. She is very quiet, a complete and perfect opposite to my constant chaos. Everything she says is very well thought through, and she really warmed me in my session by starting a sentence with, “I was mulling over something you said last week after you left…”. I really, really like her, and I suppose that that is why the content of our session felt so hard.
I really worked hard this week to eat four times a day. One day I didn’t manage it, but one day I managed five times. I still lost 0.4kg this week, which made me happy, but A didn’t seem pleased. Despite managing to eat, I know that I am ill at the moment and I feel like my thoughts are getting worse each day. I had a massive wobble in a meeting at work this week because somebody said something that triggered my thoughts, and I had to walk out in tears. My boss came after me, and rubbed my arm and my leg whilst I sobbed. At one point she stroked my hair back behind my ear and I completely melted, such a maternal act. I am so, so thankful now that I told them about my ED when I started with them, because it would have looked extremely odd otherwise! Still, I hate myself for being so unprofessional and I am sure that it is only because I am working so hard (and achieving, slowly) that she was ok with it.
Tucking my hair behind my ear. Good god, the pain my heart felt.
So, back to A. I think we both feel that CBT needs to start – and she, very sensibly, wants me to map out the next few months and look at the inevitable ‘bad patches’. We were planning to start in two weeks time, but I have performance management the week after, which seems like a week that I will decide to stop eating altogether – obviously not good at the beginning of CBT! So we might wait until the week after – so, four weeks from now.
I will be allocated 20 sessions, so, added to the 4 before that, 24 sessions until the end. That is all. 24. Less than half a year. Already, I feel the painful ache of an attachment disordered ending.
I want to get well, so badly, but I do not want to leave therapy. I do not want to leave safety. I do not want to ever, EVER be alone.
I will map out the next few months, and I will go next week, and I will try not to cry at the unbearable ache in my heart that I will feel when she writes the session number at the top of her notepad.