I wanted to be free.
I wanted to be free of anorexia. Free of the thoughts. Thoughts that taunted me 24/7, telling me I didn't deserve to eat, didn't deserve food or life or happiness or love. Thoughts that told me I am worthless and useless and ugly and that I don't deserve to live.
I sit here, dreaming of what might have been . . .
I wanted to continue with graduate school, learning and writing and exploring new ideas. I wanted to continue to grow as a writer, and planned someday to use my skills to do all sorts of things: advocate for those whose voices have been silenced by society, people with eating disorders and other mental illness, the poor and those who live on the fringes; write children's books and poetry; teach and help others discover the gift of writing within themselves; and just write for the sheer joy of it.
I wanted to heal my marriage of the damage anorexia has caused it, and rediscover the happiness and love that were ours before I got sick.
I wanted to be able to be there for my family and friends; rediscover relationships that didn't always revolve around how sick or how thin I am.
I wanted to go out and eat and not be afraid, spend time going to the movies and concerts and other events without anxiety nipping at my heels.
I wanted to stop the daily weigh-ins and calorie counting. I wanted to sit down at one meal, just one meal, without being afraid of the food. I wanted to eat one piece of food without knowing or caring about how many calories were contained within it.
I wanted to be free.
I wanted to return fully to myself, not be halfway there and never fully recover. I reached out for help, called Renfrew and was ready to give my total self to the program and begin true recovery.
But recovery costs money. I sit here, fully expecting a final no from the insurance company today. I constantly check my cell phone, waiting for it to ring. It would almost have been kinder if the insurance company would have said no this morning instead of drawing out the agony all day.
Do they not realize what this means to me? That I felt this would start me on the path of recovery. I felt that it would save me.
I was supposed to be on the last leg of my journey to Renfrew today, heading toward hope and help and possible recovery. Instead, I am sitting here filled with anxiety and wonder how I will handle that final no. I'm sorry I ever called Renfrew. I'm sorry I ever gave myself that hope.
Everyone says if this doesn't work out there's something else out there? WHAT??? There are no support groups here, the hospital is only a place for stabilization and if my insurance isn't going to cover this - a 30-day day treatment program - it isn't likely it will cover anything else.
To them, I am just a number. That reality was brought home to me Friday when my doctor said not to take this personally. How in the hell am I supposed to take it?
I AM MORE THAN A NUMBER. WE ARE ALL MORE THAN JUST NUMBERS TO BE PLAYED AROUND WITH BY THE INSURANCE COMPANIES. WE ARE HUMANS.
I am a human. I had a life, and I want it back. But I can't do it by myself. I can't handle the thought of getting better, only to have the fear of another relapse haunting my days and nights.
I wanted to be free. But I guess I'm just wasting my time.