False Confessions

by MB

I know you've exchanged calls with Dr. Edelstein. I feel uncovered. And not in a good way. 

I know I haven't been honest with you. Not because I don't trust you, but because I'm worried about what you'll think of me, if I show you how abnormal I think I am. Either way, my thoughts are below. I will see you tomorrow, I hope. 

"False Confessions"

In my most recent eating disorder support group this past week, I shared the conversation we had on Monday, about my fascination with containment, cleanliness, and everything I choose to withhold from you.

I broached the subject with minimal hesitation, shocked by my willingness to disclose my most intimate of my shortcomings to a room full of empathetic strangers.

The inherent irony of this admission is not lost on me, as the very fact that I attend and participate in group therapy is yet another facet of my life I have, thus far, withheld from you. This particular disclosure embarrasses me for a number of reasons, though I am trying to accept that I can no longer allow shame (firmly entrenched beneath another filmy layer of myself) to defer our work. I am embarrassed by the name of the group, Pursuing Recovery, which seems to attract those people searching for a nominal validation of their own struggles. (I imagine your reaction to the group’s name would be similar, as it semantically pathologizes a number of behaviors, distilling them into an illness that renders its sufferers passive.) 

I knew you would find out, but I did not want to be the one to tell you.

I admire you; I see the parts of myself I most wish to be in your own quotidian habits, and I fear what you’ll think of me. To attend a support group is to admit, even non-verbally, that I do not have it figured out. That I am more fucked up than I have the strength to admit. That maybe you won’t want to treat me if you  know the depths of my (irrational but nonetheless omnipresent) insanity. What if you see me as weak, needy? I will have tarnished my façade of the needless wonder, left vulnerable by its meticulous absence. 

I’m not sure if this makes sense. It probably doesn’t – it’s likely the ramblings of a fucked up but not beyond hope person. But I still worry what you think of me. 

I will see you tomorrow