Sunday, September 26, 2010

Sod Off And Die

5:40 pm

I am currently not in the greatest of moods.

That stupid little shit, Kitty, just keeps fucking off downstairs to go out for a smoke. When I tried to do the same, I was politely  invited to go fuck myself; as in, if I wanted to smoke that badly, I could leave the hop-sital program and go home.

So why the FUCK are there no consequences for that back-alley scruffian, Kitty? WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK? Why does she keep getting away with it? Just cuz she's certified? Am I the only one who reckons that being certified is all the MORE REASON why she shouldn't be going downstairs, interacting with the innocent and oblivious public, and flirting with the temptation of running towards freedom? I mean, at least I'm legally SANE! (not a guarantee).

And something else is bothering me. I'm just gonna be honest here, M has really hurt my feelings. On Friday night, I told him about losing my fecking Sunday pass this week, and what a difficult weekend this was going to be. What with being trapped in hop-sital the whole time, and my parents being out of town, so no dogs, and no visitors (except Joshie, thank Christ, or I would have shot myself in the face by now), I was really thinking of blowing this joint - especially after all the shit with the anorexic-or-bulimic-treatment horse shit for the second week in a row.

I asked M if he could come in and visit me sometime this weekend.

"No, I can't," he said late Friday night, when he had called to say goodnight. "I have Baby this weekend."

"Oh," I said, disappointed.

"Yeah, sorry, I'll just be too busy."

Yeah, I get it, I thought irritably.

It wasn't his fault, I was just disappointed. Really, I was more frustrated with the program than with him; it was just salt being poured in my wound, I guess. I shuffled back to bed and watched Sons of Butcher alone until the wee hours of the morning, trying to exhaust myself, so I could nap all day the next day.

On Saturday, I got lots of supportive texts and calls for my Weekend Of Fucking Misery and Confinement - Mum, Dad, Joshie, Wang, Taaliyah, Ugu, Ex-Bf (who wrote to apologize for never showing to pick up my dog Billy; he was too ashamed to face my dad), Toronto Paulie, even Lynch, with whom I haven't spoken in months. Everyone remembered to show their support for the overwhelmingly crappy weekend I was forced to endure.

Everyone, that is, except M.

I didn't hear from him until 2:30 pm on Sunday, while I was in Afternoon Snack. When I only had to run out eight more hours to finish my Weekend Of Fucking Misery And Confinement.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, bros and hoes, hurts my mother licking feelings.

I know he's busy. He's got a full time job and an almost-three-year-old kid. But so what? So does Joshie, plus she has a husband, plus she's six months pregnant. She still found thirty fucking seconds to fire off a fucking text.

I don't know if he is still punishing me for what I did six weeks ago, or if maybe things just really aren't going to work out between us. I really thought after Thursday night, after he kissed me, that we were back on track again.

Clearly, we are not.

But let's talk about something else, shall we? I'm tired of fucking brooding over it.

I only have four more hours to run out now, which is bloody fantastic. I am looking forward to getting back to our normal schedule tomorrow. Having the counselors here and our regular three Groups a day really helps the days go by faster, plus I have an AA meeting tomorrow evening. So I am all set up for tamarraw, and Joshie is coming back to drool over Trent Reznor videos and giggle and snort over Big Bang Theory on Tuesday night, like we did this afternoon.

I am starting to get a little restless right now. I am sick of sitting in a fucking hop-sital bed for...let's see, how many hours have I been forced to stay in bed this weekend? Let me do the math...okay, for the whole forty-eight hours, starting at 8 am on Saturday morning, I was allowed to be out of my hop-sital bed for a total of eight hours. You can add an extra ten hours to the total time IN BED if you count Friday night's sleep.

There just isn't enough topless videos of Trent Reznor on YouTube to make that acceptable.

I have things to do, lots of them - I just don't always want to do them. Sometimes I just get tired of sitting in the same fucking spot and position for three goddamn hours, even if it is on a motorized hop-sital bed (bed goes up?). To be honest, sometimes, like NOW, I just want to fucking destroy something. Like every time I check my phone to see that no, M has not called, I just want to throw it against the fucking wall and watch it smash to smithereens. Plates and glasses are not safe in my presence right now, nor impressionable children.  And if I could just get my hands on that cunt Baby Momma...

God, I gotta find something to do. I told Day Program I would do her makeup tonight, but the way I feel right now, I'd prolly gouge her eyes out. So I think maybe that's out.

9:45 pm

Time: Evening.
Mood: Shatty.
Tummy: Painfully full from angrily stuffing my face.
State of Mind: Turbulent, pathological, restless.
Thoughts of Trent Reznor: Ah, I could do with more.
What Do I Want: To Leave Hop-sital.

Yup, that's what I'm thinking right now. I think I've had enough.

I'm frustrated with this shit with Miss Kitty and her goddamn trips outside. I'm frustrated they're telling me I can't leave the hop-sital until I gain weight, but they won't let me eat any Extras. I'm frustrated that when I do eat any additional food they tell me that it is disordered eating, and yet I still have ten pounds to gain. I am frustrated because I feel like I could go home right now, and not purge - it has been four weeks now, and I have only done it once. I could go on the waiting list for Day Program, which prolly (one would assume) means I would just spend the exact amount of time waiting to start at home, that I would have spent waiting here in hop-sital. But at least in the Foundations Day Program, the weekly weight gain requirements aren't as overwhelming as in Restorations - you only have to gain half a kilo a week there, as opposed to the kilo and a half that you have to gain per week here. I could wait it out at home, eating foods I am more comfortable eating and not having to eat so quickly and cram so much in at once that I am painfully bloated, just so I'll make it to the next meal, because I am not allowed to space it out a little more evenly.

Tomorrow, I am going to ask to see my weight from this morning. Not be told it - I want to see it. And if they haven't reevaluated my minimum weight as per my request last Friday, I am going to request a Sit Down, and tell them all this stuff I have just vomited all over my blog. I haven't left treatment yet, and I will give the medical team (and Mum and Dad and Joshie) a chance to present a cogent argument, but then I am making a fucking decision. This is getting to be ri-goddamn-diculous. And while I can acknowledge that some of my desire to leave is pure restlessness, and perhaps a touch of desire to SMOKE, I also truly believe that I can better address my problem of OVEREATING WHEN I AM NOT BEING TOLD I HAVE TO GAIN A KILO AND A HALF A WEEK.

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