I’ve written before about medication misses, how the combination of needing to take it in the morning but after breakfast often means it is missed and my head, crammed full of Things To Remember makes me doubt if I took it and at 225mg doses, a double dose isn’t advisable. Last night I realised I had forgotten, but let it go. Because once sleep comes, it is deep and filled with incredible dreams. So, in my sleep, my birth father took an eight year old K and L to Sweden on a motorbike sleigh, wrapped in cling film to keep warm and dry. They returned with pockets filled with bunnies, which were tiny and would never grow and which would come when called. In a darker dream, I was humiliated by my adoptive mother for getting fat and my anger and humiliation at yet again being told that being upset was due to my persecution complex at being adopted drove me to decide I would not eat again.
The morning in which I awake is far more real. Fuchsia the cat spills Cs tea by head butting him in a demand for tea. He swears. I try and calm the situation by promising to wash bedding, but in my foggy state all I can do is sleep, in J’s bed, where I slept to try and escape the sense of panic at not being able to sleep and waking C, worrying as I usually do that the bed is infested with fleas. (It isn’t).
I see L’s breakfast on Instagram and realise she has escaped porridge. I feel angry that again C allows this to happen and ashamed that my medication lapse meant I was too groggy to get up. I write an angry comment on the post that this isn’t a recovery breakfast, it is a diet breakfast, but of course it is deleted, because truth has no place in a social media recovery world. I see a post on Facebook, wishing all those with past Christmas ruined by EDs, a better one this year. I weep and weep. Perhaps it’s the medication. Perhaps it’s grief. In the world of lies and delusion, of emotions managed and suppressed by drugs, of dreams of recovery and the nightmare of resistance, there are days when I have no idea what is real any more