Relapse;Signs

And Found

(Title and end lyrics from Reflections)

A few weeks had passed, and I began to realize this was not going to be a half-assed recovery attempt and that I wasn't magically going to drop down to 95 pounds again. I had gained, yes, but I knew that it wasn't real weight yet. I had initially gained about seven pounds, but one cannot gain so fast, which meant that it was just extra food and water weight from the increase of calories. I was now at 2400 calories, which was around maintenance for a healthy weight, and that meant I was now going to start gaining, for real. I wasn't ready, but I also wasn't ready to die, and at this point it's essentially recover or starve to death, which is a painful way to die. Usually my day consisted of healthy stuff and lots of peanut butter and a little ice cream to keep the food volume to a minimum, as my stomach just wasn't used to so much food. Usually I made a bowl of oatmeal with a hell of a lot of peanut butter to get in 500 calories in the morning, as that was usually the hardest for me to actually go about my day without it. I'm not going to lie, I've definitely had a lot of extreme hunger that's been going on, and I'm awaiting the point where Hypermetabolism sets in, I was told it would once I hit closer to 3000, I was going to be on 2700 to restore my weight to 125, then lower back to 2000, which is sedentary maintenance for me, and slowly I'll have to learn to eat again. Right now, I'm still dealing with the extreme hunger phase, sometimes I'll just eat a whole jar of peanut butter or a box of cereal, but as I've been eating again, it's been going away, and yeah, it happens, but not as often. I honestly feel bad for my parents, because they're the ones buying the food, and I'm the one eating it, but I've been forbidden to job hunt until I hit at least a 16 BMI. Which is still 20 pounds away. Honestly, yeah, it's painful watching the number on the scale go up, it went from 95 to 97 so far, and I have to accept that it's going to keep climbing until around 137-145, which is the lowest I'm allowed to go at the height that I'm at.

Today, Oliver had booked another show for us to play, at a larger venue, with some other local bands, which really got me excited. I had only been used to that small venue in town. It was honestly exciting to finally travel somewhere else, even if it was only an hour away. I knew that Eros was my favorite song to play by now, people always came up to me after the shows and we'd share stories sometimes. I honestly loved connecting with people who sort of are the same. It made me feel sort of at home, like I wasn't the only one dealing with this.

"Allen? Are you still in bed?" I heard mom say after she knocked on my door. I had realized that I wasted the whole morning sleeping, again. I thought that by now I'd begin to have energy again and I'd be able to move without the exhaustion, yet it's not changed all that much, now I'm just well...pooping more. I dragged myself out of bed and out of sheer curiosity and habit weighed myself again. I knew it'd be high and I'd want to fist my throat until I puked everything up, even though I knew there was nothing in my stomach at the moment. I just really wanted to know my weight. I drag my body into the bathroom and strip to my boxers. I caught a glimpse of my body in the mirror and it was honestly just horrible. I was bloated and everything looked swollen, but I knew it could be worse. I had to remind myself that this was only temporary and if I kept with this, it'd go away. I hated it, but I felt this burning urge to step on the scale, even though I knew it'd just end in tears anyway, so I did. I stepped on the scale. It turned on, and I put my whole weight on it. The screen had a little ticker on it, and it went across the blue screen a few times before the number 108 showed up. I immediately looked to the toilet, wanting to puke until the number said 94 again, but I knew that would be dumb. I knew that at least 8 pounds was water and then 3 pounds were my bowels, which for some reason have yet to learn how to shit regularly. It's just, well, shit. I stepped off and sighed. I had to remind myself that the number was ok, that it was going to help me stay alive, that if I would've stayed at 95, I would've died. I put my clothes back on and walk downstairs into the kitchen to make breakfast, which, again, was oatmeal with a fuckton of peanut butter because how else would I actually eat enough without puking from volume. I walk into the kitchen and mom was there, working again.
"You're finally up, thought you'd be in bed all day." Mom said and I shrugged as I made my way to the cupboard with all the bowls and plates.