I think I may have had something of a breakdown. A breakdown, and then an epiphany, or maybe it was both at the same time.
A little over a month ago, dad and I fought. He's so good at making me feel so worthless. I'd been looking forward to a long weekend, to relaxing and enjoying it. I'd had a good streak of taking care of myself, of dealing with my emotions without cutting or starving or purging. I thought I was making progress.
It wasn't the first fight we've had, and it wasn't even the worst fight we've had, but it was bad enough to trigger a panic attack. I tried to ride it out, just let it run its course without doing anything self-destructive, but I couldn't. I fell back to old habits, and I fell hard. By night, I still felt so panicked that I locked myself in my bathroom and slept on the rug.
The next morning, I tried to think of what I could do or say to make dad understand how his anger affects me. But I couldn't think of anything I could do or say that would make a difference. I've tried talking to him before, and it just doesn't work.
And I realized something, maybe for the first time. It didn't matter how much therapy I had, how much time I devoted to learning better coping mechanisms, how hard I worked on becoming assertive and rebuilding my confidence. If I stayed in that house, he would destroy me.
So I left.
And it's indescribably wonderful, to be out of that situation.
And I've gone 34 days now without throwing up.