I learned something new yesterday. Remember that feeling you’d get when the teacher (or worse, the principal) called your parents when you were a kid? Weird, it feels almost the exact same when my dietitian decides that a phone call to my therapist is warranted.
I don’t think I even made it through the frame of the door into her office before the words, “I got a phone call about you this week, two actually”, came out of my therapist’s mouth. I moaned, walked across the room and then flopped on the couch. She didn’t have to tell me who called or what had been discussed, I had a pretty good idea.
“Well, let’s talk about it.”
And then she waited.
Great. She wants me to start. I don’t even know where to start or what to say. My mind was racing. Like, I feel like everyone is over-reacting, but if I say that it looks like denial. Or am I in denial? Why didn’t I eat breakfast that morning? Or lunch? Could I actually follow my meal plan even if I wanted to? How did I get back to this place? When did it start? No, I’m fine. I’ve got this.
It was one of the most difficult conversations I’ve had in awhile. I eventually found my words. She pushed hard, demanded responses I didn’t want to give, and helped me open my eyes to the reality that I am relapsing. Probably the most difficult part of the discussion was her pushing the realization on me that people will intervene on my behalf this go around. Me failing, isn’t an option.
For now, I have a month to turn things around, to push hard and find my own footing.