Ed is a Liar!

I’m mad. It’s Saturday morning, December 9, and I have been up fighting with demons in my head for 2 hours. It’s the early quiet dawn, and I am the only one awake. WRESLING. I have been searching and searching for a podcast for parents in my position. I can’t find anything. At least not anything helpful.

I just want to know…..
How do you admit your baby to an eating disorder clinic? Over Christmas? How do you leave her there? Like literally, how do you walk away from her without suffering a full mental breakdown? How do you go on pretending your family is whole? Sing Silent Night at Church? How do you open gifts on Christmas morning? Bring in a new year? How do you support your husband in his grief knowing he feels the need to stay so strong? How do you support your other sweet kids who are desperately missing their sister, confused by her disease, broken by their parents hurt, and probably a bit angry at the lack of attention they're getting.

AND….

Do all of that with some peace in your heart because you know this decision is saving her life – mentally and quite possibly physically.

I’ve decided to call my daughter’s eating disorder, Ed. Because one thing I want CRYSTAL CLEAR is that Ed is NOT my daughter. Ed is a LIAR!

Have you seen Christmas Vacation? It’s a yearly staple for our family. The scene where Clark wants nothing more than to tie up his boss, “look him in the eye and tell him what a cheap, lying, no-good, rotten, four-flushing, low-life, snake-licking, dirt-eating, inbred, overstuffed, ignorant, blood-sucking, dog-kissing, brainless, dickless, hopeless, helpless, fat-ass, bug- eyed, stiff-legged, spotty lipped, worm-headed, sack of monkey shit he is.”


I WANT THAT!!

But, Ed’s worse. By far. He gets into your head and is SO loud that you can’t distinguish your thoughts from his. It’s like playing in a band and your instrument is a recorder (you know, the one you played in 4th grade). Ed is playing a trumpet into 3 microphones. You try and play louder; breathe harder. You fight to be heard, but unless you have tools and help its exhausting and fruitless. You just aren't as loud as the trumpet - you've lost the ability to hear your own sound.

We’re getting our girl tools and help. And she is not alone…but I know it feels desolate. It does for me too.

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