Scramble This, Baby : Day 4

Two things happened/occurred to me that I never, EVER thought would happen.

Unbelievable thing numero uno: I scrambled an egg. My very first one. And I ate it...and it was edible! And tasted semi-okay!

Am I the only one who finds it ironic that I'm learning how to cook in a center for eating disorders?? Ah, life's little surprises. They never fail to....um, surprise me.

The other revelation that stumbled upon me during this fine December day: I have become low maintenance. I dare say I'm more low maintenance than--and I never thought the day would come when I would say this--MEAGAN! MEAGAN FUCKING TYSON IS MORE HIGH MAINTENANCE THAN REHAB ANGIE!!

Let me back this preposterous notion up with an example: Our first day here, I got up, put on a shirt to do yoga in, left it on to go to therapy, came back, took a shower, PUT THE SHIRT BACK ON, spent all day in it, SLEPT IN IT, then had breakfast in it and WENT TO THERAPY IN IT AGAIN!!! I SPENT 36 HOURS IN ONE SHIRT!!!

It's actually kind of relieving. I think "What the fuck is the point of wearing make up? Who's harder to impress, my anorexic house mate or my therapist? Hmmm."

Today was also one of those days when you stop and think "Shit. Life fucking sucks." I don't know what exactly triggered it, but as I was sitting in art therapy painting around the squiggle I drew with my eyes closed (I was told to do it and did not question it), I thought "Ugh." That one little example of onomotopia basically sums up how I've been feeling lately--UGH. I realized that, at least during a portion of my day, I walk around in sort of a semi-conscious state, not absorbing anything around me because I don't know if I can mentally take what's happening right now. In my last note I mentioned I wasn't feeling anxious enough about things. Well, guess who woke me up this morning? Yep, that's right. Mr. Anxious himself.

I literally want to cry at mealtimes. I want to scream "GET THIS FUCKING SHIT AWAY FROM ME!" or, if that didn't work, eat all of it, then run to the bathroom. Problem is, the bathroom doors DON'T LOCK. And I'm starting to think in my old manner again. Like "Fine, I'll get fucking fat while I'm here, but when I get out, I'll go back on my diet and just exercise a lot to get rid of it." And I learned that that's not "Authentic Angie" thinking--it's ED. (ED= Eating Disorder. Cute, huh?) Well, if that's Ed talking, he sure is a Chatty Cathy, because he won't SHUT THE FUCK UP. Seriously. I'm going crazy in my own mind here.

I don't know. I honestly have trouble believing anything I see in the mirror now. I have no idea if it's what's there or not. I feel disgusting. I avoid looking in mirrors. The thought of going clothes shopping (not that it's allowed) terrifies me. And honestly, I feel like I never want to put on a pair of jeans again. I'm too scared.

A new girl came today. Her name is N.. She's my roommate, and she's from New Zealand but moved to Nor Cal last year. She's really quiet but super sweet. I'm trying to be nice and make her feel welcome, but I'm pretty sure I'm coming off as a psycho who has a habit of babbling.

Tomorrow's yoga, then therapy, then BOCA BURGER NIGHT! Now, Boca Burgers were a staple of my near-starvation diet, but I'm sure eating them here involves slabs of butter or cheese or something to sneak a lil' fat in there. I often wonder if, at meal times, I pushed half my plate of food away and said "Ahh! I'm full. Thanks for cooking!" I'd probably get counseled on my "rebellion against authority."

My head hurts from too much thinking. All day, it's "2 starches, fat, dairy, protein, veggie." Eventually I'll make a song out of it, so I can at least pretend these thrice-daily torture sessions are part of some hilarious musical that will soon be over.

Ugh. I can't wait.