Writing is a form of therapy - the only therapy that seems, in some small way, to ease the pain that is a constant on mind and body. A relief, if you will, of the incessant naggings that won't stop, and don't stop, regardless of the efforts undergone to kwell them.
Writing, therefore, is the escape route taken to take a heavy mind from that which makes it heavy. 

However, where to start, and where to finish?

That, ladies and gents, is the very thing that stumps me most. I want to write, but when it comes to the actual hands-to-keyboard motions, I don't know what to write, or how to write. So much is going on inside this mind of mine, but at the same time, very little is able to be put to words. Words to thoughts, and thoughts to words; that's my trouble. 

Everything swells up inside, threatening to burst, and comes out in the most horrid of ways.

After having come out of IP, I haven't done what needs to be done, because at this moment in time, what needs to be done doesn't meet the criteria in which I have (or the "other" has) put in place. Food is an issue, living is an issue, family is an issue, school and work are issues - all too much, all too soon. I knew what I was coming back to, but nothing could prepare me for it.

I am in constant fear.
Fear of food,
fear of weight,
fear of life,
fear of living.
Fear of letting go.

I can honestly say I am not ready to let go. A nurse in IP told me she knew exactly what I meant, and she knew, in the bottom of her all-too-caring heart, that what I was saying was truth.
But she also said "I live in hope."

At least someone does.

Home.

Home again.

What next?