Over. The breakdown, the screaming and running, the cursing and crying . Over. Her room was quiet, serenely quiet. Her friend, the boy who, seriously saved her life that night, sat by her on her bed. She propped herself up and sat, heaving, showing me the bruises, the scrapes, swearing at her father.
She came downstairs for dinner. Brisket. It was St. Patricks Day weekend after all, and we always have brisket. I had no idea that little ritual was part of the madness. Then she went upstairs and, I was later told, puked it all up. Again.
But, miraculously, 3 hours later, as I lay with her in her bed, she cried. she sobbed, she told me I would hate her. Never, honey, NEVER. Bulimia. WTF??
72 hours later. The door locked. The key turned. And my baby, my precious baby, who had , finally that horrible night, that glorious life affirming night, chosen to live = was locked in the Eating Disorder Center.
And now, 6 years later. It is over. Finally. Much earlier for her, but for me, finally. I can look at her and not analyze every word for signs of relapse. I can offer a meal and be ok if she opts out. My strong, guarded, wonderful girl is well. And I can finally move forward.