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One of the biggest problems with this diary is that the times about which you need to write most are precisely those about which you feel you cannot write. I don’t know what has happened, why I feel like I do. Is it being under constant threat, pressure, stress (whatever) of hospital, splitting up, doing what I cannot do? I can’t think straight, I’m not making sense. Everything should be so clear, so easy and straightforward but I have so many conflicting extrinsic and intrinsic messages. Why, when I need something so fundamental is it denied me. I need help but cannot provide it. If I have to ask it is already too late. I am dead set on this and am determined to make it work but I need support – even if it does come to incarceration, until such time we need to have given it our best shot. Maybe I won’t like it, but that is irrelevant. I’ve lost the luxury of preference.
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I was doing so well this week, no cutting corners, finishing everything that was on my plate (cobwebs included), deciding to have a snack instead of pretending (primarily to myself) that I would have it later. Then the proverbial hit the fan. I don’t know what I said or did or didn’t say or didn’t do, but it was wrong, wrong, wrong. And at the end of shall we say a slightly emotional day as a result of Hannah trying to tackle some of my pre-prandial behaviours, I didn’t have it in me to behave rationally. Things spiraled out of control and I am thoroughly ashamed to admit I gave in to it and let the anorexia win. Why? Why did I protest by clamping my jaw shut? Just stupid. What a waste of an evening – sent to bed with no dessert, no night-time snack and no Clinutren.
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