After days of worrying about her reaction, I finally sent a message back to the woman S and I were going to rent the house from.
Don’t worry about the house at all. It was an option for us yeah, but there are other places out there, and it’s got to work for you too.
I was concerned it may come across a little cold; I was tired and stoned, and didn’t really want to contact her. Her reply, though, was much better than I expected.
Thanks for telling me. I’ve been really quite worried about you and how you’d take the news. However, it sort of pales into insignificance compared to your health and well being. I just feel relief that you’re on the mend
She offered us any furniture she’s getting rid of, if S and I manage to find somewhere to live. So although I was upset when the offer fell through, I do feel better now. Another possible rent has come up, although it’s only 90% certain it’ll happen. Still, it’s something, and much better than dealing with estate agents.
Fibro hit hard today. I woke at midday to mum tapping my knee, asking if we were going shopping in the afternoon. I said no and rolled over, determined to spend another hour in bed, but then she said those immortal words; “we’ll only have to do it tomorrow”.
Point taken, I half-heartedly put some makeup on and smoked a joint, trying to ignore the feeling of hunger in my stomach. The diet/healthy eating has been going well, but I over-indulged over the weekend and the carefully-constructed mechanism to pretend I don’t feel hunger fell apart a little. I finally weighed myself, and in the past three weeks I’ve lost four pounds. No binges, no cutting calories dramatically, and no purging. There’s a small voice shouting at me – telling me that four pounds in three weeks is rubbish – but I’m managing to mostly ignore it.
I’ve been wearing size 18 jeans for two weeks. They’re huge on me. I know it’s ridiculous to wear clothes which are too big, but I’m still struggling with working out how much space I take up in the world. It’s never been clear to me just what I truly look like, and I know that the reflection I see in the mirror probably isn’t anywhere close to being a true representation of me. My mother is convinced I have some sort of body dysmorphia. Maybe she’s right.