I held it together until my support worker left.
And then it was just me and my mum.
I wanted to cry.
No tears would come.
Instead I shouted. I could hear the frustration, the anger, the pain in my voice.
“Everyone is having a go at me. You’re all saying I’m not trying. You think drinking these milkshakes is easy, but it’s not, it’s so so hard.”
My mum knelt down in front of me. Tears rolled down her cheeks.
“I’m not having a go at you, I promise. I know it is difficult for you, and I can see how hard you are trying. It breaks my heart to see you like this. I am just so worried about you, your weight is so low.”
Then she sat next to me on the sofa, her arms around me. We sat, in silence, my head on her chest, my legs curled into her lap. Comforting me like a child.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I don’t meant to shout at you. I know you are only trying to help me.”
She holds me tighter.
“I know. You don’t have to apologise.”
Sometimes the isolation gets to me.
“I wish I could show you inside my brain,” I said. “You don’t understand what this feels like.”
I feel so alone with this illness. People around me do not know how debilitating it is. Even my mum, who sees the worst of it, does not fully grasp how my mind is working.
But she is my rock. I know she will support me and guide me through this. She is learning, she is understanding, she shows me nothing but compassion and love. Her worry sometimes spills over into frustration, and I can understand why. I don’t know how she deals with it. How can she see her child so ill, and know the solution is so simple, but still not be able to help? It must be taking courage beyond what I can imagine. Day after day, she is there with me, fighting.
And one day, we will get there. I know it.