Depressive Apathy: Not Caring About Not Caring (Dear Cookie Monster)

Depressive Apathy: Not Caring About Not Caring

Dear Whoever,

This is not a diary, but this tiny recap will lead into the main point.

And yes, I think we do need writing prompts because I have no idea who is writing this letter (it’s supposed to be Fifteen, age 15) or it’s purpose.

I just talked to my doctor back home via videocall.

He’s the one that dragged me from the depths after “the Fall” and got me to stop purging, even though he is the least knowledgeable person about eating disorders ever.

For example, today he said “Yes, I can tell you’ve gained a lot of weight,” which is pretty much the last thing you’re supposed to say to someone with an eating disorder.

It doesn’t bother me when he says things like that. For some reason, I find it endearing and refreshing to just be around someone who is genuine and clueless about eating disorder treatment protocol. I think that’s what made him able to get me out of that deep state of depression in the first place.

He made some suggestions for me, one of them being to move back home, and I straight up told him that I just don’t care enough to take care of myself.

I don’t want to be back in my country, let alone back in my home, because I love being so far away from everyone and everything that reminds me of the horrible stuff that happened. I also like people not talking to me because they assume that I don’t speak their language. Getting to listen in on conversations because they assume you don’t understand is super entertaining – I can’t get that back home.

As far as not taking care of myself, I don’t know anyone, so I don’t care what I look like and I don’t care what I’m doing to my body with all this food I’m eating. 

I don’t even care that I don’t have anymore meds. I care a tiny bit that I don’t care because this is so alarmingly different than how I normally am (I care about everything way too much), but I don’t have enough energy to do anything about it.

I just want to be in this bed with the covers pulled up. 

And to venture outside sometimes to get lots of food to bring back, but that’s about it. 

I don’t see that changing anytime soon, so I’m just going to hunker down and deal with it.

That did turn out more like a diary. What was the point of that? 

As Fifteen, I can just say that having worked so hard to build a strong future only to see you (Ana, age 25) living like this makes me sad. 

But I’m not going to get mad and call you a bunch of names. I know what you’ve gone through and what you’re up against, so I’m just here to help in whatever way I can. I can just sit here, like you all were offering so long ago.

At least you’re not going to live at home again, I’m so glad you are keeping yourself away from the most supportive and generous yet dysfunctional people ever. I say that with so much love, but seriously, you go crazy whenever you live with them (probably more to do with you than them, but still).

Just keep at it. Especially that book.

Fifteen and whoever else that was.


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