So I’m home. And it’s not great. I’m even more alone than I was when I was in hospital. And as I sit and write this at 4 in the afternoon I haven’t eaten a thing. Nothing. Not even a crumb. How am I supposed to stay out of hospital and live a life if I don’t eat. I’m not choosing this. It’s not an option. It’s not a chose. I just have it and can’t seem to get rid of it. I’m proud I haven’t eaten anything. I want to shout it from the rooftops. I want to brag. But that’s wrong. I should feel annoyed at myself. Disappointed. Concerned. Worried. But I’m not. Today I did my food shop for the week. It took forever. I was walking round and round the shop just staring. Reading the calories on everything. Debating weather to get it. Weather I’m actually going to eat it. Calculating how much fat it in everything. Working it out. Working if I can afford to eat it or should I just skip it. I start my new job Wednesday and I don’t want it to get to March and me have to leave because I’m back in hospital. I want to be able to hold down a job, I want to be able to go on holiday. I want to be able to live. To have a boyfriend to go out with bestie. To do normal things. I don’t want to go back to being hospitalised. But how can I eat. I don’t even get hungry. I don’t even think about eating. It’s just natural to skip it.
I don’t know what to do. I want to be wrapped in a cuddle and told the everything’s going to be ok. That’s what I want. A long big warm cuddle.