As if one diagnosis weren’t enough,

I’m transitioning out of treatment altogether, starting this Thursday. My plan for aftercare is kind of a mishmash of options – I’ve secured a therapist, but am booking other consultations in case she and I don’t click. I have calls in to four other treaters, including my old shrink that first turned me on to the sweet sweet relief of Trazodone. I’m trying to get into two or three DIFFERENT DBT groups, and I’m contemplating getting a referral to a nutritionist.

Wait up here – a nutritionist? What ever for?

Well kids. Let me tell you a story. Once upon a time, a long long time ago, in the age when Country Boys was just going to air, a girl named Erin ate a sandwich and suddenly got angry with how full she felt. “Aha!” she thought, “I know just what to do!” Following in the pattern of many other girls she’d known, she got rid of the sandwich the way some people get rid of poisoned food. Regurgitation. The whole thing worked like a miracle – she was no longer angry, and no longer full. Beauty.

So yeah, in addition to depression and anxiety, I’m also (drumroll) bulimic! Wow, the punches, they just keep on coming.


While in residential treatment we were safety contracted to avoid all self-harm behaviors, including the occasional purge. I tried to limit myself to smaller portions, so I wouldn’t feel that overfull feeling that so often precludes a post-dinner bathroom trip. Plus, all the food was weird, and there were all these rules and stuff, and I couldn’t deal. So I just started avoiding most of it altogether and spent a lot of money drinking Ensure.

It shouldn’t surprise me that I’ve dropped ten pounds since I checked in to Proctor, but, you know, it really does. And I don’t like it, except for how I kind of i do. And that’s scary.

So, a nutritionist. Because why not add on one more treater, at this point?

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