March to the Gallows

Lynch.

Have you ever heard that song by Hector Berlioz called "March to the Gallows" or something? 

"Dun dun.. da dunnnnn!  Dun dun.. da dunnnn!..." and so on.

I feel like that's the soundtrack to my life right now.  I have an appointment with my outpatient therapist in an hour and a half and I just know she's not going to be pleased with me.

"Why, no, I haven't eaten my meal plan!  In fact, I haven't even made a meal plan in over a week!" 
"No, actually I haven't seen my Naturopathic doctor.. I only just called her this morning!" 
"No, I have no plans to see my nutritionist before the Mayan-predicted-Armageddon, thank you for asking."

Bad news.  Or, as my Ukranian friend once told me, "this is very problem."

Yes, Maria, this is very problem!  How do I tell my therapist that I actually don't want anything to do with recovery?  That I would rather stick my head in a bucket full of nightcrawlers and dead rodents than live without my eating disorder?  There's no good way to say that.  If I tried, she'd toss me out the door in two seconds flat.

I drew another picture this morning.  It's eerie and weird.  I can't believe it came from my brain.  I have a feeling it won't be the last odd thing to come out on paper, though.