I can't let grief kill me.
All I can think about is my beloved cat, Cassie.
She started getting sick about two weeks ago, and the veterinarian found a large, inoperable mass in her abdomen on Thursday. I decided to have her put to sleep on Saturday. I couldn't bear to watch her become emaciated, skin and bones, weak and unable to do much of anything (sort of like how I was last summer - the irony isn't lost on me).
Now I don't want to eat. I feel so lost without my precious kitty, my baby; the thought of eating seems, well, wrong.
I want to go back. Back to the days when I was thin, fragile; a whisper of a person. It seems fitting when I am losing so much - my kitty, my job of 10 years (I took a buyout), my whole identity as a journalist - everything.
I want to be small again, to be taken care of, to be weak and not responsible.
And I don't want to be that way.
I think of how far I've come. I've gained enough weight that I'm not scary skinny, my blood tests are good and I have enough energy to work. I plan to go to graduate school this month, and work on my master's in English Language and Literature.
I have dreams, damn it, and it seems like every time I try to move forward, my damn ED nips at my heels. It says that living is false, that planning for the future is stupid, and see - your cat died, so what's the point? Any excuse to get me back.
Then I remember how helpless I felt watching my cat become emaciated. I can only imagine what it felt like for my loved ones, my husband, my friends to watch me become that way last year. I remember feeling my cat's spine and her wasted legs, and then I think about the pictures from last year, showing my spine and wasted arms.
And I think - I can't go back to ED. It would be like going back to an abusive boyfriend. He may be cute, and he may offer some kicks, but in the end, he'll turn on you and kill you.
In a heartbeat.