I know people worry. I know they worry about me. This is one thing that has always bothered me, and even though it causes me pain and shame to know that people feel like they are helpless and can’t do anything for me, and that they worry about me, it was never enough to make me stop what I was doing. My mom would tell me she worried. My grandma didn’t voice her concerns much, but when I flipped through her journal after her death, I stumbled across an entry that voiced her relief about me being released from the hospital after a bout with pancreatitis, and how much better I looked. I started sobbing uncontrollably when I read that. People would tell me that they thought I was too skinny, that I needed to drink some milkshakes. I heard these things, but it’s not like they made much of an impact. They made my heart hurt, but my brain has little devils running around in it, and the tell me that food is bad, and that I should avoid it at all costs.
I am naturally a people pleaser. It’s in my blood. I hate to disappoint people, which is why it’s so ironic that I have a disease of the mind that is constantly disappointing others and myself. It’s like I’m never enough, even though I have no desire to be enough. I have always wanted to be the background music, blending in and not causing attention to be drawn to me. And yet, this disease attracts attention. How can it not? I hate that something I am doing to myself causes other people to worry. I hate, hate, hate it. Maybe that is why my change of mind feels so good. Because not only am I doing something to help myself, but I am also helping ease the minds of those around me. Being proactive feels so good.