It’s been 8 months almost to the day that I left Timberline Knolls.
I was convinced that that was it, I had found The Truth and was never going back to any place like that again.
I was done worrying my parents, or making them pay heaps of money to try to keep me sane.
I’m glad I went but I never want to go back.
I told myself that was the last time, at least for a long, long time. For months I remained strong and stable and never doubted my capabilities to succeed.
Then I started not eating enough. And I hid it from everyone the best I could. But by my parents’ eyes were sharp and my boyfriend’s were sharper. He knew what was going on, and he threatened to tell my parents if I didn’t come clean to my psychiatrist.
Of course when I did that he called my parents anyway and recommended some form of hospitalization.
8 months. I made it 8 months before I fell of the wagon. What sort of excuse for an adult am I?
How can I hold down two jobs and get a car and apartment if I’m in the hospital every few months?
How will I survive when I turn 26 and my parents’ insurance doesn’t cover me anymore? Will I be out on the streets, a sail less vessel on the rocky seas of my illnesses?
I am more than disappointed in myself. I’m mortified, ashamed, scared. If I couldn’t even make it a year, what will happen next time?