#i delight in dealing out psychic damage 4+ times a day

[roselightfairy]

me: *makes a really, genuinely spectacular pun*

@thevillainsmustache: "Shut your fucking mouth, you whore."

[charlottebent-blog]

Tipping the Scales

When your day begins with being knocked on the head by a conker (a result of two birds in the overhead tree having vicious pigeon sex), you know it’s going to be an interesting day. In my previous few appointments with Paula I’ve been overly smug and cocky, convinced of weight gain. Unfortunately, this expected outcome was not achieved. In fact it was the complete opposite. Weight loss. Although I have tried something scary (i.e. over 3% in fat) every day since the hospital visit and finished every snack/meal placed in front of me, I am still weary of the scales.

I arrive at the ever friendly drug and alcohol rehab shack, anticipating the usual horrors of the waiting room. To my delight it is empty, minus the decorator painting the walls. This creates an awkward situation as 1) despite the fact I do not know this man or care for his opinion, he probably assumes that I’m a druggy/alcoholic. I have the urge to use his paint to label my forehead ‘anorexic’. 2) due to much needed refurbishments of the dingy centre, all the furniture has been removed, leaving me with no choice but to stand in the middle of the waiting room (due to wet paint on walls). Thus leading to… 3) getting in his way countless amounts of times. Politely muttering sorry each time he has to divert around me, I can sense him mentally cursing me. With each painful minute that passes, I attempt to use telepathy to inform Paula of my arrival. Clearly a wasted attempt, not to mention the amount of calories I might have burnt during this effort. After 4 minutes of trying to reach Paula (with the decorator looking increasingly concerned for me) I realise I probably appear constipated rather than psychic and stop. With another 7 minutes passed and silence growing ever more intense, Paula makes an appearance. She comments how odd it is that there’s no other patients in the waiting room. I tell her that they’ve probably been relocated as majority of the patients are substance abusers, therefore mellowing in the paint fumes may hinder their rehabilitation.

I am introduced to another psychologist as I enter the room. This is a common occurrence when they’re not sure how to unscrew your brain, so rack their brains for a solution together. Blinded by her gentleness and good-doer-church-goer vibe I fail to hear her name. Looking like the kind of person that would believe everything in life is wonderful, I mentally name her marvellous Mary. Marvellous Mary spends the remainder of the appointment nodding exaggeratedly, with the occasional vocal input of 'mmm’ in agreement. Her presence obviously crucial to my health.  

Having tripped over my own foot in the process of sitting down (something even now I’m not sure how I managed) I tell Paula of the visit to the hospital and my Mum’s I’m-putting-my-foot-down-or-shipping-you-off-to-the-loony-bin approach. She invites me onto the scales. Previous cockiness has taught me not to expect a weight based on my own/Shanna’s perception. If somebody had told me I’d gained a stone after eating a digestive biscuit I would quite feasibly believe them. Reluctantly, I await my anorexic fate. For the first time since attending clinic sessions, I have gained weight. Finally my efforts have paid off. I now weigh 0.7kg (I account 0.6kg of this to be a direct result of increased peanut butter consumption) more than last week. I celebrate my new heaviness with a little chair jig, as I do so I see marvellous Mary scribble something down (most likely something along the lines of 'may be anorexic but can still throw some fantastic dance moves).

Looking more surprised than when I saw my Dad eating a ryvita, Paula congratulates me and enquires about my motives. I tell her of my outrage of restricted bathing hours, making it explicitly clear that I will require more baths during the winter months. I also mentioned that a patient had a photo of her rabbit that she missed dearly. I express how if someone gets so lonely they miss a rabbit, I can’t begin to imagine how much I would miss my dog (as dogs are ultimately superior to rabbits), thus hindering my recovery. Unsure of how to respond (she’s obviously not a dog owner) Paula finally questions how I deal with uncomfortable feelings of fullness and guilt. Having experienced this yesterday evening I explained how I continuously tapped my foot on the table, with recurring thoughts of eaten curry. Ordinarily this would drive my Dad insane, pushing him to the point of 'you’re going to break the bloody table’. However, knowing that I was distressed and feeling particularly vulnerable, he resists and sits there getting increasingly agitated. Seeing this I continue to tap out of pure annoyance, until (approximately 3.5 minutes later) he leaves the room. Feeling a sense of achievement from this, I tell Paula of my strategy to wind up various family members in an attempt to distract myself from guilty food thoughts. She agrees to my idea under the circumstances that I do not cause any permanent damage to furniture or physically kick Dad/dog.

So my next plan of action to improve my own health, is to deteriorate my family’s through the means of irritation and nuisance tactics. If I’ve got to feel gross and blobby I may as well have some fun with it, whilst testing my parents patience. Let the games begin.