The bathroom floor is where it happened. Lying on my face and smelling of vomit, snot, and tears, I couldn't breathe. My chest was aching, my head was exploding, my skin was cold but I was sweating, and my left arm was numb. I could no longer see. Over the course of a morning I had binged and purged myself right into this situation. Over the course of my lifetime I had been working toward this goal. To slowly kill myself. I'm here. Aren't I proud?
I moaned aloud to God because I could not speak. I just knew I was dying.
I had two choices. I could get to the phone and call for help or I could just let it happen. "I don't want to die," I thought. Wait, I don't? My body didn't understand that. I feed it and then make it give it back over and over again every day. My body thinks I want it to die.
I was scared. What would happen to the children? Who would find me? I tried to get up, but I couldn't move. A warm, wet sensation came over my face and I was losing consciousness. I didn't think I was going to wake back up.
But I did. Two hours later I woke up and I was fine. I think I had an anxiety attack. I've had them before and I've had more since I started recovery, but none of them had ever felt like that before.
Recovery is scary. But, dying is scarier.
That's what it took. I can't be a good mother with this disease and I definitely can't be a good mother if I am not here.
I'm proud to say that out of the 29 days of May, I have had a blessed 25 days in recovery.
I love you.
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