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CHAPTER EIGHT. teacher's pet.
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HOW I VIEW IT, there is absolutely nothing worse than being forced into breaking a habit. I can't break them as it stands — why else do you think I'm still submitting myself to Jason whenever he pleases? — but there's something so much more discouraging about doing so involuntarily. If my accident had been dealt with like I wished, I would've been capable of returning to my workout like nothing happened, because nothing did happen. I fainted, and as a result became shocked at how much people overreact. And now, I might as well have the words 'bulimic' printed on my forehead, seeing as a stupid mistake has become my only trait as a person.
That doctor has no idea what he's talking about. I do not have an issue, it's completely manageable, controlled, and mine to handle. The ball is in my court, making it my choice alone as to whether I reject or keep it. The thing about my eating routine is that it was a choice, I knew what I was getting into and thereby know the consequences like the back of my hand. It's not like cancer or heart disease or something that deserves treatment, this was my decision. I can start and stop whenever I like, though the issue everyone views to be life-threatening is that I don't want to.
I like overeating, I like the release that comes with ridding myself of it, I like the feeling of emptiness. Everyone views this as such a negative, taboo subject from the outside, but if they had any insight into how rewarding it truly is then maybe they'd understand. I don't think a doctor is particularly keen to listen to me try and justify the actions he perceives as harmful to my health. Say what you want, but I think doctors are extremely ignorant. What, they get one or two diplomas and suddenly think they understand everything about everyone? You're a medic, not God, humble yourself.
With that being said, I continue to contradict myself by toying with the piece of paper given to me by Dr. Preston upon my leave from the hospital, containing the number of 'a lovely woman who'll ensure the best recovery for me' (his words, not mine). I've been in this position on and off for over a day: laying flat on my bed with the note in one hand and my phone in the other. Using the few hints of willingness I have when it comes to getting better, I finally complete the action I've been putting off since returning home and I dial the therapist's number. This will be better than ending up in a psych ward.
