I’m sitting here, stomach full, and a box of Ephedrine on the table in front of me. I just got off the phone with my father, who seems to have some psychic ability to know when I am about to do something stupid. He asked me, point blank, if I was “taking any more of those pills.” Those pills. That’s what we call the diet supplements that landed me in a treatment facility. Emotions have never been his thing, and I know these conversations kill him. So, even as I am picturing myself taking them tomorrow, I tell him “No. I promise I haven’t taken anything.” And it’s the truth – I haven’t taken anything so far. I am an expert at manipulating my words by now so I rarely even have to lie.
So here I sit and remember my last therapy session. I planned to give 110% towards recovery. I’m going away to school soon and I need to get better. The pressure is suffocating me. Already I am bargaining with myself. I will just take them for 2 weeks. That’s enough time to lose 10-15 pounds. Then I’ll throw them out.
I know that this is not a good plan. This is a huge step backwards in my recovery. But it is the only choice that will let me sleep peacefully tonight.