The 19th


Journal Entry #1.

January 19th, 2014

(I removed numbers and replaced them with x)

I cant believe I’m here. It’s weird because in a way I wanted this. I wanted the world to know that how mad I am at the world for giving me the cards that is has handed me. I wanted people to know that I wasn’t ok. I wanted to feel some sense of pride in myself and the only way I can do that is through my eating disorder. Everyone keeps telling me I am going to completely forget today. Stress and malnourishment can work wonders apparently. I don’t know why I am writing what is going on today. I will tell you one thing though, I refuse to get fat. I refuse to get up to x pounds. I’d rather die than get up to 1xx again. No. I need to be underweight. I need to have some sort of consistency in my life. I can count on Anorexia, it’s what brings me comfort in this world of chaos.


September 19, 2014

Fourth chair to the left. There is comfort of always sitting in the same place when I go to the doctor’s office. It gives me a weird sense of stability. I always sit here whenever I am at the health center at my school. I’ve sat here many times in the past year due to the same reason. I will be honest with you in writing that I thought I would never be here again. I was supposed to be better than relapsing. At least I have the knowledge that I am the thinnest one here.

“Sarah Gore?”

I’m the fattest one here. I can feel people’s stares. They are probably thinking I have BED. This is so humiliating. I shouldn’t be here. I am not sick enough.


“Sarah? Hi! My name is Shelly. What are you scribbling?”


“I’m just writing. Can I keep writing?”


“For now, sure. Make sure you don’t write anything mean about me!”


I smile.


“No ma’am”


She seems cool. This place is more like a cabin. I had an imagination of what this place would look like from the pictures I have seen on the website. Was not picturing a mega cabin. I have to stop writing, Shelley’s back.


“Get on the scale Sarebear”


“What do I weigh?”


“I can’t tell you that Miss Sarah bear-ah.”


“1xx. Looks like you’ve gained some weight since the last time you have been here”


I make sure that I clearly and loudly pronounce the ‘p’ to show my utter disgust at her weight comment. I can feel my face getting red. My heart is in my throat and it’s making it impossible to breathe. 1xx. How can I live with that? How am I going to handle recovery when I am so huge? What have I done?

“Alright the doctor will see you now, just follow me”

This nurse is asking me a shit ton of questions. How many fucking intakes am I going to have to do here?


“Did you eat today?”




“When was the last time you have eaten?”




“Do you remember what you had?”


12 bites of a bagel, (14 chews each), 7 cups of black coffee, two pieces of pineapple (9 chews for the first piece, 11 for the other), and a spinach salad.


“Just a bagel and fruit.”


“So Ms. Gore, you are here for an eating disorder?”


“Are you ok?”

There is no way to hide that I am crying despite my best efforts to act cool, calm and collected. I just can’t get the weight out of my head. I am so angry. Why did nobody tell me that I was so fat? Fuck everyone that has been telling me that I look great. Clearly, I am disgusting.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine”


She keeps talking but I cannot make out the words she is saying. I hear the words calories, laxatives, and weight but I don’t want to listen. I answer the questions I can make out and just reply no to the rest. I don’t fucking care anymore. I get it, ok? I realize what I am doing is bad. Why do you think I am here? So we can celebrate my health? She thinks I am lying. She’s literally asking if I am a laxative abuser every minute. I’m telling the truth, I am pill free. Whatever. She isn’t hanging on my words so I won’t swing on hers either.

The lack of trust that is here is unbelievable. I have a red hospital bracelet, which basically means I can get in trouble for walking too much. I have to be watched when I go to the bathroom, I have had every item of my suitcase unfolded and searched. To be honest, it feels a tad like I am being violated.


This place is like a sea of bones and tubes. There is one girl here who doesn’t have hair and this super skinny bitch keeps coming up to me telling me that I am her roommate. This other girl told me that she is calling me Barbie behind my back. That girl seems nice. Courtney, I think. Maybe we will be friends. It was such a mistake coming here. I had to leave everything for what? To be the fattest person in a large cabin?


“You’re blood pressure is a little low. I want you to go upstairs and get a blood panel and an EKG then you’ll be free for the weekend”

Free. That is the fucking opposite of how I feel right now. Shit, that’s why I am here because I am not free of this disorder. I have fought for so long but it keeps winning battle after battle. I am going to walk back still with anorexia, still lost, still searching for answers that restriction wont give me. So no, bitch, I wont be ‘free’ for the weekend.

I am heartbroken right now. How can I keep doing this? I want recovery so bad and I am willing to fight for it but God, this is embarrassing. Telling the faces of people who were once proud of me that I am struggling is so belittling.

“Are you ok? Are you afraid of needles? It wont hurt”

I’m still crying.

“No. I just saw my weight”

Silence. Sarah just made shit awkward.

“I’m anorexic”


Oh. I know that ‘oh’. I have said that ‘oh’. It translates to “you don’t look like you have an eating disorder.” I hate being an ‘oh’. The conversation ends there. He takes me blood and I walk away.

Day 2 Mother Fuckers. I still don’t know the purpose of me writing this. I’m not really a journal person but I feel so alone that all I have is this child’s composition book that they gave me. We have Anorexics and Bulimics Anonymous next.


“My name is Brenda and I am recovering from an eating disorder”


Am I supposed to be writing during this?


“My name is Shawna and I am recovering from an eating disorder”


What do I say? What do I say? What do I say?


I am trying to build up the courage to say my name and that I am in recovery. Just thinking of forming those words seems so fictitious that it doesn’t seem morally ethical for me to say. I don’t have that bad of an eating disorder. I’m not thin. I can’t be sick. I shouldn’t even be here.


“I would like to make an appointment for the nutritionist.”

“Ok. Do you have a referral?”

“I don’t think so. I was just told to ask you to tell me when her next appointment is.”

“Tuesday at 1. Can you give me the reason why you need to see her? I need to put it on file.”

“My name is Sarah and I am recovering from an eating disorder.”


2 responses »

  1. Comparing who is sicker just gets dangerous. You are just as sick as everyone else and you deserve treatment just as much as anyone else. You are recovering. By choice. You are fighting for yourself and I honestly think that is such a great step towards the right direction. You can do it. I’m proud of you.

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