Wednesday, 29 December 2010

A philosophy for 2011.

'I guess I could be pretty pissed off about what happened to me... but it's hard to stay mad, when there's so much beauty in the world. Sometimes I feel like I'm seeing it all at once, and it's too much, my heart fills up like a balloon that's about to burst... And then I remember to relax, and stop trying to hold on to it, and then it flows through me like rain and I can't feel anything but gratitude for every single moment of my stupid little life.'
-American Beauty.

Everything, EVERYTHING, will be fine. I'm feeling poorly right now, so I won't write a lot, I'm going to save my thoughts on 2010 for another day, another blog, because I have so many and I can't let them go. On my noticeboard, over my desk in my room at uni, I have an empty bag of feed, from when I had the feeding tube earlier on in the year. At first I kept it because I wanted to remind myself never to go back, losing weight, whatever, is never worth that. But it's on my board now to remind myself how far I've come. An plastic bag that caused so much anxiety six short months ago, is now the symbol of... I don't know. Would it be melodramatic to say my life? I've come so far. So far.

Sunday, 26 December 2010

Christmas without an eating disorder.

I stepped out of myself for a day. Or maybe I stepped into myself, into who I should be, could be, will be. I've realised that my eating disorder is not my frame, it's not as I always expected, yet feared. It's not my support, the bones of my being. It's not intrinsic to who I am, and without it I will not fall. None of it is anything but an exoskeleton, something to be shed and left, discarded unobtrusively. Gone. Of course, the irony here is that creatures tend to consume their exoskeleton. But maybe that's not ironic at all, maybe that's what I must do. Maybe each morsel eaten without compensation is a little more of the exoskeleton gone, swallowed like a pill.

Christmas has been fantastic, I can't describe how amazing a NORMAL Christmas is, when all you've associated with Christmas in the past is an anxiety that it's not possible to over-exaggerate, over an occasion that always seemed to be about food. Last year, I spent the day crying in my bathroom. This year I spent the day with my family. A dinner similar to what everybody else was eating. Fun, laughter, alcohol, a few Doctor Who re enactments and yes... food. I am so excited for 2011 and the being that I am going to be.

Thursday, 23 December 2010

6 weeks without scales.

My scales and I had a violent dispute a few weeks ago. I'll not get into it (because if you know me, I'm sure you can use your imagination- I'LL SET FIRE TO YA), but we decided a trial separation might be an idea. Oh, listen to me. I hate people who type all gay like this, personifying pointlessly; next I'll be writing from perspective of a cuddly toy. But oh no, no. Don't worry, aside from my talking Fairy Princess Peppa Pig, I'm not much of a cuddly toy type of a girl.

The separation isn't going horrifically, but I can't help but feel I'd feel, well, BETTER if I had them. I know that the amount of times I weigh myself isn't normal, neither is the importance I put on even the tiniest fluctuation (0.2kg of a gain can utterly ruin my day) but it just doesn't seem to be that much of a problem. At least when I know my weight, I know it. I can put it aside, to a point, whereas now my mind is taken up by imaginings of impossible weight gains and it's killing me. No, that's such an exaggeration. I'm actually pretty happy, altogether. But it's definitely playing on my mind, too much. It's ANNOYING me, but like I said- the separation isn't horrific. It's just not favourable to having my scales here.

And that's the thing, I can't even make the decision to check my weight now and then, I don't know, cut down on the number of times I weigh myself because my scales aren't HERE, they're alone for Christmas in Colchester, whilst I'm back up in Scunthorpe. Cutting down, I don't know... despite me saying before that it doesn't seem to be much of a problem, I know that putting an inordinate amount of importance on the number given to me by a few pieces of what would otherwise have been scrap plastic and metal isn't RIGHT. It's so illogical that it's laughable. It's like using your temperature to gather how good a person you are- I KNOW that the number given to me by the scales is relevant to nothing but my weight, and that as long as I stay within the healthy range, my weight is relevant to absolutely NOTHING.

But sometimes my weight is the only thing I feel connected to- facing it is my punishment or reward, isn't that sick? It's cause and effect and it's, well... I'm trying to describe this without using the word 'control' because shit, that word annoys me. I think I've written before about how it's possible to describe anything, in anybody's life, rightly or wrongly as a quest for control. But still, eating disorder specialists love to throw the word around, and maybe I should stop resisting it and let them.

How annoying, maybe they're right.

So now I'm obsessively trying to work out my weight by my thighs. Which I should just give up as a bad job, because even if I could work it out, and then even if I managed to shrink my thighs, what would I achieve? I'm not trying to squeeze into a smaller clothes size, because my clothes all fit perfectly well, thank you. I'm not trying to make my body attractive, because I actually have no interest in what you think of it, thank you. I'm not trying to make my body smaller, because I think it's actually an alright body, thank you. I don't want people to think that I'm skinny, I don't want bones and I most definitely have no urge to be like Mary-Kate. I don't really want anything but health. But, you know, I'd still quite like to know what that lump of waste plastic and metal thinks of my body. God. Fuck you, scales.

Tuesday, 21 December 2010

Snow, part deux.

I wrote about snow before, and how it was getting me down, because it reminded me of this time last year and what an awful time that was. Well, here's the strange thing... now that I'm home and I'm in the same setting that I was in this time last year- sitting on the same sofa, looking out on the same garden and drinking squash out of the same glasses, it's just not getting me down. It's doing the opposite, it's making me feel good about how far I've come. Because although the setting is the same, I am so completely different. I think the fact that the setting HASN'T changed has just highlighted what a different person I am now. So much has changed, and at the same time NOTHING has changed.

Saturday, 18 December 2010

Home for Christmas.

It's nice to be home. I keep typing and then deleting bits, because all I really have to say is that IT'S NICE TO HOME. Oh, and it's bloody cold. It's colder (and it's grim, hahaha) up north and it's killing my Raynaud's, so I can't text. I don't think anybody from The Colc, anyone who would have been texting me and not getting a reply, reads this, BUT I'M PUTTING IT OUT THERE ANYWAY.

Not that I usually reply to texts, if I'm honest. But there you go!

Tuesday, 14 December 2010

Realising you're not made of glass.

Don't tell her I said so, but Willis said summat interesting yesterday. We were talking about how we are untouchable, how we cannot be hurt by anybody else, and she made the point that when you realise that you're not made of glass, nobody can hurt you and you can do anything. It's a better way of looking at the whole thing than the way I was looking at it, truth be told. We've both come to the conclusion that we're untouchable, that nothing or nobody can hurt us, and we have both arrived at this notion through being hurt. And yes, through realising that we are NOT made of glass.

Which is where Willis' theory stops; you hurt me more than I have ever been hurt, but still it doesn't break me, therefore I am unbreakable. Nice, neat. But it's slightly different for me. You CAN'T hurt me, not to any degree, because anything you can do to me I have done a thousand times worse to myself. Left on it's own like that, I think that's sort of sad. Especially when looked at in the present tense. I mean like, anything you can do to me right now doesn't compare to what I am doing to myself right now. That's a tougher one I suppose, since I am being relatively (relative in my own experience, rather than summat more general) nice to myself and so I suppose I don't really need to dwell on whether that's sad or not.

Or maybe I ought to think, because maybe it's not sad at all. Maybe it's liberating. That's what we were talking about to begin with, the freedom that comes from realising that we are not made of glass. Have you realised yet that you're not made of glass? Really? If your immediate response to that question is to scoff, to roll your eyes, or to not even really ask yourself it, it's because you are presuming that you know it. Or maybe you do know it, maybe it is that obvious. But do you believe it? Do you believe in your own strength or do you ever genuinely believe that you can't do this any more? The only thing that will break a person, that will break you, is the moment that suddenly you doubt your solidity. I'm not made of glass, but you might well make yourself into glass, do you understand?

Saturday, 11 December 2010

A week left.

Term is over in a week and I get to go home for the first time in two and a half months. I'm ready for it. I'm getting through day by day, hour by hour, at the moment and the days where I don't wake up needing to cry, are the days I usually end up in tears by 4pm. I don't know. See, there is nothing wrong with me, I am just absolutely exhausted. There's nothing really that's making me tired; I'm not doing excessive exercise, I'm not eating TOO terribly. In fact, I'm not really tired at all.

I think I just need to step out of existence in a way that's not possible here, where I'm surrounded by people. I get like this every so often, but I've never had to hold it off for so long before. I suppose this is what it's like to have responsibilities towards people and towards just general SHIT, besides your sanity. I don't want to upset my friends or my boyfriend. I don't want to miss any more of university than I absolutely have to. But I need to sleep. I need to be by myself and to cry and to just generally hide.

Thursday, 9 December 2010

A night out.

Having to get drunk in order to face your body in the shower can't be that safe. Slippery floor and all that. I do think that my eating disorder and the amount I drink helps my intelligence though, you know. It's a careful balancing act, working out how much alcohol is necessary based on how much I've eaten over the last few days, how early I'm showering and, um... oh, my brain is melting. Maybe my hypothesis isn't all that brilliant, HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

Friday, 3 December 2010


We've got a fair whack of snow and it's getting me down. You know how when snow first falls everybody gets really excited, because they forget the inconvenience and what a bitch it is when it turns to ice, and really how bloody cold and wet it is? Well, I never forget that. But really, that's not what bothers me so much about snow. You take, I don't know, torrential rain and what a bloody inconvenience that is (if my face gets in the rain too much, my skin peels off. I'm not kidding, I'm allergic to rain. Or maybe just Scunthorpe rain, since that shit is radioactive, like most of the population. 'Hi, welcome to Scunthorpe. The only place that advertises it's inhabitants in its name'), but that doesn't depress me any more than it thrills me.

Snow, on the other hand... There are two big issues with snow. Besides the obvious ones about how it limits footwear and I have no balance and it's cold and my fragile blue eyes cannot handle the brightness (which isn't REALLY an issue because I always have at least 2 pair of sunglasses on me). We got snow last year at this time, when I was waiting everyday for the phone call to tell me that a bed was available for me in Leeds, to go serve out my eating disorder sentence. Then we got snow when I was IN Leeds, serving out that such sentence. Actually, the only issue I'm going to write about here is that one- the reminder of YCED. I don't especially want to get into the third because it's actually too fukmalyf for this blog, even.

I've been through much worse in my life than eating disorder treatment. Much, much worse. I can't say it was the best time of my life, but it wasn't even the worst of this year- getting sectioned and having a tube going up my nose and into my stomach, having calories constantly being forced down it? Much worse. No doubt. But it's everything that that time represents. The hope leading up to it. The imagining of a pure freedom that just never arrived. Think of the abolition of slavery. The slaves and their supporters, sure, they worked and they prayed and they organised resistance, won a war. Get told they're free and then what? Most of them ended up working for the same masters and paying any wages they got back to the master in exchange for board. And here I am, I am free. 'Free'.

Tuesday, 23 November 2010

Quick note about my recovery.

I've had a flick through my most recent posts and they seem to be really, well, I don't know. If I didn't know better I'd expect the voice behind them to be in some major arse denial by stating that she's in eating disorder recovery. So let me tell you something. I keep my weight stable. And I keep it there deliberately- I don't try to lose weight (which I'm pretty sure I could do, piece of piss) and obviously I'm not going to make an effort to gain. My BMI is maybe about 19.8, HEALTHY. I'm not happy with the number on the scales, I'm not happy with how my body looks, but I am very, very happy with the concept of health and how much healthier my body is now, than it has been in years. That's my one aspiration here, HEALTH. And so for that, and that alone, no matter how down I seem on my body, no matter how many days I struggle to eat or not to binge, as long as health is my main priority and I'm working as hard as I can for that, I think I can truly state I'm in recovery.

I'm not recovered. Let's draw that distinction, oui? I'm still fragile and as a general rule, my days are evenly split between a healthy amount of calories consumed in a healthy manner and days spent perishing in the disorder. But as I'm gradually getting stronger through, well, my DESIRE to get stronger, I'll get there. So don't worry about my recent vents and what appears to be me down. I have been down. I have eaten badly, if at all, but it's nothing more than a bump in the road, ok?

Sunday, 21 November 2010

I don't usually like poetry.

But I want to bathe in this.

The time will come
when, with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror,
and each will smile at the other's welcome,

and say, sit here, Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

I want the last two lines tattoo'd.

Thursday, 18 November 2010


People tend to be sort of reluctant when it comes to taking medication. No wait, let me narrow that generalisation a little... Brits tend to be reluctant when it comes to medication- I've seen many a documentary (maybe I should just stop there, I've seen many a documentary. I'm a documentary junkie, I'm not kidding, I'd watch a documentary on bloody patch-working or brick making or, I don't know, paint drying) on American's polluting themselves and their kids with pointless chemicals.

I don't really understand the reluctance. I mean, I do. Ish. I don't think a boisterous child needs to be fed ADHD meds or powerful psychiatric drugs. If a child is happy, let them be. And I don't think anti-depressants are a singularly effective treatment for eating disorders, for example. Oh my, especially not fluoxetine (prozac). DON'T EVEN GET ME STARTED. I swear that drug is more dangerous than... Oops, I got started. Back to task (I'm a little drunk, last night was corkin'). I think really, well, I don't really care about taking medication, either way. Would I rather not have to take it? Maybe, just for the convenience- not having to get prescriptions and all that. But the action of taking five tablets a day, as I take at the moment, doesn't take more than a few seconds. Most of the people who have issue with taking medication are the ones who don't NEED medication.

And that's lovely for them, for all of you, you CAN sit there and say that you don't like things messing about with the biology of your body (even though you pump yourself full of pesticides and chemicals in your food and drink, but I'll not go there because I love Pepsi Max and much as I love documentaries). But please don't get on your high horse and don't presume that, for example, taking anti-depressants is taking the easy route. Anti-depressants are easier than depression, sure. But I don't believe anyone who has genuinely been depressed would judge another person for doing anything that's likely to free them from the prison. It's stupid. It's like not getting your vaccinations and it sort of takes the piss out of people who haven't access to... Oh shit, another rant for another day.

Weirdly, people seem to be more put off by drugs that they think are going to change their personality. I say that's weird because it's so uneducated. It's such a big claim and such a ill-informed one, but so many people have it. My mum is so brilliant and the most tolerant and open-minded person I have ever had to privilege to meet, but she's hesitant even when my medication changes. And so let me tell you categorically, psychiatric drugs do not change your personality.

One of my friends asked me whether I ever though about coming off everything and just being myself, which is extremely adorable. But also madly laughable. Without the drugs, I am the same person. What makes up a personality? I'm not off to get scientific (mainly 'cause, like, I can't get scientific. I'm doing politics and not, um, science for a reason, yanno. Or hair-dressing... I need to remember NOT to cut my own fringe), but it's basically likes and dislikes and characteristics and wit and intelligence and all that kind of shit, right? Psychiatric drugs do not change that, no more than any other sort of medication. Maybe your moods change and maybe a break from symptoms brings out new sides to a person, but again, recovery from any, not just mental, long term symptoms will do that to a person. Priorities probably shift, but usually they shift to what the person wishes they could have been before- it's not that it's a new focus, it's more that there's now an ability to make what was previously a desired focus into something more.

And sure, I've thought of coming off them. Not seriously for a long while, because it's always absolutely disastrous when I try to go without. Yes, I'm dependent on them. But again, why the negative connotations there? Most women are dependent on tampons for one week out of four. Most adults are dependent on caffeine. Every human (shut up, Anorexia) is dependent on food. Air. So fuck it, relax. If a medication helps, what's the problem?

Saturday, 13 November 2010

Start again.

I've had a hard week. Truth be told, it's 'cause I'm shit at... oh, what's that horribly clinical term? MANAGING MY CONDITIONS. I mean, I'm getting better at organising my eating disorder. Par example, this last week has been massively bulimic (massive being the bloody word, I have gained weight and I feel disgustingly deformed for it) but my day's hardcore bingeing and vom'ing hasn't started until I got through most of my tasks for the day, HA. It doesn't stop me getting fat, but letting my eating disorder prevent me getting owt done would make me feel even more shit and that would make it harder to be able to write it off as a blip and move on. I've become beautifully logical and methodical, with regards my eating disorder.

But otherwise, I'm bloody shite. I'm a complete and utter prisoner to whichever force is most powerful that day- general anxiety; social anxiety; the pre-cursor to mania; depression; general FUKMALYF, I'M SO FAT shit, et al. I mean, don't get me wrong, my life is good right now. I'm not saying that my life is as ruled by these forces as it was a few months ago, but what I am saying is I don't take responsibility. Even in this paragraph, have you noticed I haven't? I'm very detached from this kind of stuff, I sort of feel like I'm shunted back and forth between whatever areas my illnesses cover and instead of trying to get some footing, I just sort of go along with it. But I need to stop allowing myself to be controlled quite so much and I need to separate what is me and what is the illness.

I'm taking responsibility, but I'm not taking the blame. I am ill and let's be realistic- a bit of positivity or whatever isn't going to do a lot for that. But it doesn't have to be exactly like this. I'm just realising that if I don't want my life is to be defined by hospital trips and hiding, it doesn't have to be- my diagnoses aren't going to stop me living some sort of normal life forever. And although my life now is nearer to normal (well, normal to a student. Fully aware that there's not really a lot normal about the student lifestyle, hahaha) than I ever thought it could be, it's not enough. I think I've worked so hard at fighting the good fight against my ED, that now I want more because I know there can be more, IS more, out there. With the exception of this week, I'm constantly getting better and that's amazing and I want... I don't know how to explain this. I want to see what I can get when I put that much work into overcoming the rest. Well no, not overcoming. Contrary to popular belief, I'm not stupid and I know mental illness doesn't work like that. But changing my reactions, moving the fuck on, in a sort of, 'well yesterday was shit and I wish I hadn't have done that, but AH WELL, shit happens.'

It's hard to get my head around, because it's so abstract. And I'm aware that actions or whatever that look so much like pandering to the illness are not necessarily and what is pandering one day isn't necessarily the next. Sometimes the Anorexia in me has me spend a couple of days in bed, because I'm too fat to be seen, with bottles and bottles of Pepsi Max. And that's obviously a negative and puts me back. But sometimes I get so exhausted and I need to take a holiday from the world, so I take to my bed for a few days with some bottle of Pepsi Max. And that's definitely no negative, because it's how I relax and I feel so much better afterwards. I think maybe I just need to take better notice of my moods and behaviours, to begin with. WE'LL SEE.

Wednesday, 10 November 2010

Being disliked.

It's sometimes exhausting, being disliked.

Being hated isn't a blanket thing, people aren't necessarily anything but lovely, just because they dislike you. Most people are not cunts, that's what it comes down to. And so when they hate you but they know you're tapped, they'll pretend not to so that you don't go hang yourself and list them in your suicide note. Or maybe just they don't hate you, but they'd rather you weren't around, with your words and your vodka and your attention seeking. So they don't tell you, because the only way you could not be around now is through your stock pile of pills, and they don't want that, either- think of the disruption. And then you have to pretend that you don't know that they hate you, whilst all the time you just really want to sit them down and either agree with them what an awful person you are, or try to explain away all your faults, by way of the disease. The past. Your social anxiety and subsequent over-compensation. Whilst always always always agreeing with them in your head, about what an annoyance, what a stupid little girl you are.

I'm not exaggerating when I say I'm the most disliked person I know. In other news, I've eaten more in the last couple of days than I had in the couple of weeks beforehand (and I haven't been hardcore restricting... I've just eaten A LOT the last few days) and I am very, very, very fat. Also, my hand is deformed and I like Munch Bunch yogurts a lot. But I don't like the word yogurt with an H in it.

Saturday, 6 November 2010

The irresponsibility of the medical profession.

I can't really be arsed explaining this, but whenever summat big or significant happens, especially in relation to me being tapped and that, I can't NOT blog it. Oh, that's a bit sad- I saw an episode of Arthur where the same thing happened to Muffy (although her topics were maybe a little saner than mine. Maybe. I bet Muffy gets an eating disorder when she grows up) and that was all very tragic. So I'll try and make this quick and painless, because I have a much more interesting topic for you for my next entry. But this needs to be typed, ouioui?

I stuck a kitchen knife deeply into my hand on Wednesday, in an attempt to make a flap of skin that I could peel back, to make sure that the inside of my thumb didn't look like a chicken leg. Please feel free to laugh and scoff, call me emo or whatever. Pull a face at how disgusting it is that I did it, and how revolting it is that I'm actually now admitting to it and writing about it. I really don't mind how you choose to view that, but don't view me too harshly until I explain why I did it (apart from to check my thumb didn't look like a chicken leg, obviously), ok?

Actually, nah. I could type out a full and comprehensive time-line of the events that ran up to it, but there'd be no point- the important thing is always the significance and what comes next, rarely an event itself and besides, I can sum it up much more briefly. The whole reason for the whole thing, is that the medical profession and the NHS lack communication and were irresponsible enough to leave without the medication that would have prevented me doing it. And then had to cheek to attempt to hospitalise, and when I wouldn't agree to that, section me, because of it. Cheeky bastard. So now I'm stuck with a giant gash and a bandaged hand and an acute embarrassment over two friends who have known me a month and had to see me in that state. Thank-you, doctors. Ta.

Saturday, 30 October 2010

The secret to perfection.

Willis says that her legs are too thin. Whilst this is obviously fucking stupid, it is lovely to have these glimpses into a world where something can be too thin. Why is this so fucking stupid? Because Willis has a perfect body. The pursuit of perfection is paradoxical. Perfection is not something you can work for; not physically, anyway. Perfection is what you obtain when you sit back and realise that, you know what? If you bloody want some cake then cake is what you should bloody well have. Let them eat cake? Let me eat cake. A perfect body which is one that is nourished, and nourished for the right reason- the right reason being that that is the right of your body. No more, no less. There is one simple reason why you should eat, and eat enough, and that's because you cannot live otherwise. YOU CANNOT LIVE. You can survive on very little, for a horribly inhumane amount of time, you can subsist. But you cannot live and you can never even realise what perfection is. The demons get louder the less nourished a body is and their volume and the fact that they are more real, more alive, than a malnourished shell, are what stops the realisation of what perfection really is. The demons shout for their survival. The body must shout louder for its.

Perfection isn't a size. Perfection isn't even a confidence, confidence is the secret to being attractive. Perfection is respect, nourishment and opportunity.

Thursday, 28 October 2010


I cried this morning. I got out of bed, I used the toilet, I got on the scales and then I cried. I was so immediately swept up by the tears that I didn't even have time to get off the scales, a move that might just have made me feel a little better. Instead, I stood feet rooted to the plastic of the scales, eyes rooted to the solidity of the number, and fat... well, fat rooted just about everywhere. Through my tears, I got off the scales and got back on, and I did this 7 times- a time, a punishment, for each of the kilos I need to lose- each time having to see that bloated and deformed number. The number that now, 3 hours on, I can still see; burned on to my eyes, like the purple blobs you get after looking at the sun. A blob. That's about right.

I am horrified. I am horrified at my own powers for destruction, borne from so many tiny little incidents over the last week. A comment from somebody. A problem with my scales. A conversation with somebody I haven't spoken to for a while. Fear that somebody may be angry at me. Stupid comments about me, and not even to me, made on the internet. I am terrified of my own fragility, I need to be strong and I need to be my own inspiration. I've managed that to a degree- I used to get so disillusioned when I saw people around me struggle, that it would immediately have an impact on my own eating disorder. And so I realised that I needed to disconnect; you can care about somebody without correlating your entire mindset and health with theirs. I needed to stop drawing inspiration from the achievements of other people, because their limitations would then hit me so hard. But I still can't separate within myself people's comments and the level of effect I should let them have. I don't know if you know this, but I've actually been doing really well. Not perfectly- I haven't eaten enough and my weight has been falling, but it hasn't been falling dramatically. I HAVE BEEN FINE. A week ago, I'd have told you I was in recovery from Anorexia and Bulimia.

And now? I know a week means nothing, a week is a lapse and nothing else. But I need a ladder and that's what I can't find. I can't find, or rather, I don't KNOW, the means to get myself away from this lapse and that's what's so terrifying. I don't think my behaviours are suddenly going to be as bad as they were... I don't want to get in detail, because that's not fair to people reading this who also have eating disorders. It would also be entirely unnecessary to the point I'm trying to make.

But it's the feel and the deja vu- it's the sitting in lecture picking at bits of skin, because then you'll have a little less flesh. It's the leg shaking and the caffeine overdoses and the working out that each piece of chewing gum needs to be chewed for at least 9 minutes 16 seconds to ensure that you burn more calories than it has in it. It's knowing that you aren't even control of your thoughts, the very thing that even make you human. It's knowing that that lack of control is in danger of making you a shell again, a vessel of disease and little else- the shedding of the humanity that you worked so hard to achieve. Lapses are harder than the original descend into illness, it's the difference between walking into the unknown and being dragged back into a hell that you'd tunnelled out of, with a plastic spoon.

I think that if.. no. I don't know. Maybe the most important thing here is that I'm not willing for my eating disorder to rise up and take control of my life, as I've let it do in the past. That's right, LET it do. I will beat down anybody who claims eating disorders are a choice, because that's not fair. But fighting IS a choice and I will fight. I missed one class this week because the stress of all this is exhausting me, but I haven't missed any lectures. I missed a night out and I'm missing another tomorrow, but at the end of the day, I'm recovering from a serious illness- I can afford to miss things for that, as long as I don't use the time to indulge my eating disorder, in any way. I will not hide.

Sunday, 24 October 2010

Fat day!

I dreamt that I was in ASDA, in Scunthorpe, and saw a family friend. She told me I was look gaunt and that I needed to gain weight. It's both really depressing and really disturbing how happy this made me, in my dream. I thought I'd moved to a point where I didn't LIKE being told shit like that, but I suppose really... I don't know. It's made me want to never eat again. Pathetically, I want to be told that I'm too thin. It makes no sense, because I hate comments on my weight or body, they make me feel physically sick. Whether they're positive or negative in theory, all I can get from comments like that is that people are judging my body, they are noticing my weight, and when you're trying to recover from an eating disorder, when you're trying to convince yourself that weight isn't important, other people noticing it really fucks you up.

I feel so disgusting and huge and hideous that I have no idea how I'm going to manage lectures and classes this week. How the hell can I let myself be seen? I just want to stay in bed with Pepsi, BBCiPlayer and some F. Scott Fitz. I can't even get my reading done, because I'm too busy eating. God.

Monday, 18 October 2010

Just a thought.

The other night I was on the dance floor and I realised that I would not be young forever. One day I'd have to stay in or else be one those sad middle aged women, wishing she was 20-something and telling the world what she could have been, whilst dancingdancingdancing. To go from being so young and vital and alive, to looking in the mirror and realising that you can no longer wear what you like and say what you like- to having to dress in elegance and poise or else to be a second class citizen. We'll all be cougars and mole men or else boring fucks.

I've always thought it must be so depressing, when you stop saying that what you want to be and what you want to change and make and see and hear, and instead start saying what you'd wish you had done. I hope I always do things. Do I want to reach my goals and then risk having nothing to strive for? Yes, I think I do. Better to have reached the top than to be sitting at the bottom thinking what could have been.

I suppose before all of that starts, I need to start being young.

Sunday, 17 October 2010

Trust part deux, and watching your words.

There's is one word that is guaranteed to make me violent. People here don't believe me when I tell them exactly how UNviolent I am- I was a literal and total pacifist this time a year ago- because when I'm drunk I suddenly become this northern stereotype and start punching people. Thing is, at home I would never do owt like that and here it's all in jest, I am just a total twat when I'm drunk. And sober, really. Shhh.

I don't especially want to go into the story of what happened to me on Thursday night, because for you to understand it you really have to know certain things about me that I'm not actually so keen to write about in my blog. You thought I had no limits, right? Sorry to shatter your allusions, but truly I do, they're just further than most people's and this may be where the line is drawn. Basically, a lot of tiny events added up on the night to send me over the edge, events that would BOTHER anybody else and piss them off and maybe even ruin their night, but what would be forgotten by morning.

But for me, these events added up to leave me being collected from my mate's flat at 5am Friday morning, after having an ambulance and two police cars called out. Events that left me hand-cuffed to a hospital bed and with two policemen constantly with me so I couldn't escape. If you are ever in a hospital and you see a terrified looking girl in that situation, don't you dare judge her. Don't you dare. Even if she is drunk. Even if she is trying to escape and begging for her release- not everybody with the police is a criminal, some people are the opposite. Some people are ill. But that's not what I wanted to write about.

Even when you think you know somebody, you don't. I know everybody says that- don't think you know me- but it's honestly true. Think about me and how much you know about me. You know (or maybe you don't exactly, but no doubt you could work it out) the illnesses that clog up my medical notes. You may know all the stories about my past; I am NOT ashamed of my history and I am NOT going to hide it, the stories from my past go a way to explaining who I am now and sometimes I think people need to hear them. Maybe, maybe, you actually know how I feel about my body, how it's so much more complicated than me thinking I'm fat- how sometimes I'm afraid of how my body ISN'T hideous and my terror of it being attractive. You know who my best friends are and that I write. And so, what? You think that is all? You think stories, a few feelings and possibly the fact that your mate saw me drunk in the laundrette is who I am? You think that that diagnoses and a written mark on the internet make up a human being? Let me tell you, they don't.

I bet you didn't know that it's not milk, but being sectioned that is my biggest fear. I'm sure you can guess why, given what happened in June and everything. But I bet you didn't know that when faced with that, when a medical professional threatens me with that, I will get very, very violent as my mind tries to think of a way of getting out, so that I can kill myself before that happens. That there is not a single thing I wouldn't do to avoid that, because if they section me my prospects suddenly end and everything I have worked for will be a waste. And so, any medics out there... when you get called to a girl having a severe panic attack, don't threat her with section, just because she has a complicated background. Don't mention the S word. THERE IS NO NEED. Watch your words, you might as well call me fat, for the reaction you will get.

I'd say probably the worst part of the whole thing was being such a bloody disaster in front of a girl I have known less than a fortnight. This is EXACTLY what I was saying in my last post, I can trust people entirely to look after me, but I hadn't realised how much I resent having to. Not them, obviously- I have massive respect for Willis and I am so ashamed and embarrassed over the whole thing, because no nineteen year old should be forced to watch a girl she's known 10 days in that situation. It's heavy, it's very heavy. Me, I look at it like physical illness- if Willis had a hypo (if she was diabetic, obviously), I would look after her. But the type of thing that happened on Thursday is not pretty and it's not... Oh, I don't know. I'm babbling. I just feel like I should constantly be apologising and I hate being so dependant. I hate not being in control. I hate the feeling that people are already obliged to stand by me because I'm so bloody mental.

I also hate that there are already rumours going about about what happened on Thursday, but we'll save that for another entry.

Thursday, 14 October 2010


I feel I have to watch what I write on here at the moment, I can't just write what comes to my head right now. It's because before, I could sound all dull and down and whatever, and people could know that there were all sorts of people babysitting me- my doctors, my family, my friends. I'm a little loathe to add that last one, because, well, honestly? I've been here 11 days and already some of the people I have met here are better friends than so many of the Scunthorpe lot. But I digress.

The thing is, it would be harder for me here to have some sort of... God, how do they put it? PSYCHOLOGICAL CRISIS, and keep it hidden here than it would have been at home. The last time I was hospitalised, I think people were genuinely shocked, at least to begin with. I mean, when the initial shock had worn off, I think everyone realised it had been coming since I'd been released from hospital the time before that, but still- when I found out I was being put back in and sent a mass text to Momma Ginge and Smelliott and Ais-Ga and everyone ('Hi, I'm being put back in hospital. Give you a call when I can. Love you x') most of the replies were along the WHAT THE FUCK sort of a theme.

But that couldn't happen here. THAT COULD NOT HAPPEN. I'm not saying that I am necessarily going to be sane (hahaha) here, but what I'm saying is that it would be harder for me to spiral and for things to get to that point, for you to be taken by surprise by a hospitalisation or whatever. For one thing, it's too social a living arrangement- I live in a flat with three lads and two other girls and one of those lads and one of those girls and I are constantly in and out of each others' rooms- they would know and I trust them, literally with my life. I know they would get me help, if I needed them to. For another, it's a lot harder to blow off plans, to lyffuk, when your friends all live in the next couple of houses, friends who I also trust entirely. And just to add to that, a couple of my mates here are studying psychology and so pretty soon they'll be able to read minds and then you can REALLY rest assured, hahahaha.

It's all trust. That's the thing with being ill, you have to trust people very quickly in order for you to have any sort of life. You have to trust that you can be open about your illness, you have to trust that they will keep you alive when you can't guarantee that you can do that for yourself. It's a bitch, because being ill makes you LESS trusting, especially with this sort of thing, because how many relationships has this killed for me? Too many. Even one would be too many, but too many to count. But I'm trusting my environment and you have to, too. Don't try and read too much into my words, just trust me.

And so, don't worry about me. Let me post depressing things if that's what I'm thinking and let me know that you'll know categorically when I'm NOT OK. How about I promise to tell you when I'm not, so that when I am ok but I need to write about things that make me sound as if I'm not, we are all on the same page? Brilliant. Bear this in mind when I post next, because I have some right odd shit swimming through my mind. T-R-U-S-T.

Sunday, 10 October 2010

Both very sad and very lovely.

I love the people who don't know how it feels. I am not bitter, I am more thankful on your behalf for your health than you could ever be. And I don't begrudge you your ignorance, I don't wish that you knew how lucky you are, because for you to understand that fully, you would have to have been here. Or maybe I should say 'you would have to BE here.' I wonder if it's true what they say, that this never fully leaves you. I hope to God not, I am almost crying at the thought of that. That goes against everything I believe in- you make your own luck. If you want things to be beautiful, you have to bloody well make them beautiful. You have to take responsibility, you have to pour all you are and all you could be, and if you need to, you have to beg, borrow and steal the ways to make this life beautiful.

And so I'm grateful. I'm grateful to have people around me to whom my life is so alien. I'm so, so glad you have never had to get so drunk to be able to live in the real world. I'm glad you have 'pre-drinks' to save yourself money later on, not because being alcohol fuelled is the only way you can look in the mirror to get ready. I'm glad that you've never had sex with somebody old enough to be your dad, your granddad, because you were just so relieved they didn't find you as repulsive as you found yourself. It's more beautiful that you know, that you eat because you are hungry or because you LIKE food.

I'm finding it difficult to express how different I am. The thing is, I can sit and I can tell you the things I have done in the past and the ways I have lived and all about the days and weeks spent in all the hospitals. But what I can't seem to get across is how much I am still the disease. And maybe that's ok, maybe that's another thing I should be grateful for, on your behalf- you cannot understand how a person does not HAVE the disease, the person is so entirely consumed by it that the person IS the disease. And that is lovely, I hope you never have to know this life. I am a reflection of the real world right now, I am doing the same things that most people here seem to be- I drink too much and sleep too late and skip anything practical. But my motives are different. I've already said about drinking. But as well as that, I will be so drunk that I can't string a sentence together, but silently working out the calories I have eaten and drank and the time I must spend dancing to burn those calories, before I can leave to collapse. I am exhausted, but I must always dance and I must always talk so fast and move so much and be so energetic to burn, burn, burn.

Seriously, I... I was going to say that I am happy, but this seems to say I'm not, eh? Happiness is relative and I am the happiest I can remember being, is that better? It's lovely to be around people who don't understand and aren't used to this life and I don't mean that in a patronising way. You are all so, so lucky and luckier still if you cannot get your head around that very luck. I just need this pretence of being normal to feel real, but I'm going to make it real. But I just need to remember that I am still ill and it's alright if I can't completely keep up. I can sit things out and it doesn't make me weak, it just means I'm healing. And to be healing I must be alive, scars do not form on the flesh of the dead, and the living must sometimes rest. I'm new to this world, I'm new to being young and alive, and so I AM different. Just wait for me.

Thursday, 7 October 2010

Fresh, fresh, not so fuckin' fresh ;)

It is freshers week in the world of, um, the Condron (and the entire population of Essex university, right fair) but I'm pretty sure the entire world (because I know the entire world stalks my life, shut yerrrr face) knows that and I am really pretty bloody drunk and I have no voice and life is quite lovely. There are so many stories that I have from this week, but there aren't that many I really ought to pour out of the WWW (I know, I pour all sorts of shit onto this site, but I may just have discovered limits) because when I am grown up and very important and successful and serious and t-total and wear trouser suits and that, the Daily Mail will use this to try and tell the world I am bad. Actually, I hope they do, that's when you know you are a goodie. But maybe the BBC or summat would turn against me, for being (to nick the title I've acquired here) a 'crazy ginger northerner'. How annoying is this paragraph? Yeah soz'ard, I KNOW. But maybe I'll tell you some shit later, when I decide that I am never going to be grown up and very important and successful and serious and t-total and wear trouser suits, how's about that?

I tell you what's funny, people in the sarrrrrf genuinely don't drink like we do up north. I know it's a stereotype but it's TRUE. You get me and Smelliott and we don't do owt sober- if we have somewhere to go or maybe are going shopping or even if we have nowt to do, we get wankered. And it's not just us, every bugger does it. But here, people drink lovely and delicately and NOBODY drinks vodka out the bottle and I am the only person who carries a hip flask everywhere. Dead odd.

Wednesday, 29 September 2010

Change, part deux (or, I hope you will read this).

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry that I pushed you away. I promise you that I did not mean to, it was never a conscious thought or decision. I would never have chosen that, to do that to you. My whole life has been taken up by self-destruction and exhaustion. And I know you understand that, I know everybody feels it sometimes and you started with nothing but patience, but when it's all you are, when it's all you ever feel; when you have no sense of self-preservation and when you must always fight; when you are nothing but chemicals designed to destroy a physical being, that you feel nothing but utter disdain for? I'm sorry, it wasn't you. It was never you or about you. It wasn't me either, though. Or maybe that's too easy to say, too easy to escape the guilt and jump off the hook, when really it was me. The black, the rotten, the infested and infected, the deepest and most horribly diseased parts of me, the parts that I allowed to encompass me completely. I'm sorry I let myself slip under. I'm sorry that I hurt you and I'm sorry that I hurt myself. I'm not sorry that you cared, but I am thankful and a little sad for you.

I'm sorry that you had to fight for me. I'm sorry that you fought all those battles, but thank-you for never having fought me. Thank-you. I'm sorry that I did not always fight as hard as you did, you fought wars for me and I was so passive and so weak in some battles. I'm sorry that I was so frustrating and that the path always seemed so simple to you, but was so difficult for me. I'm sorry I made it difficult. I'm sorry that you had to be careful, you had to watch your words and bite your tongue more than a mother around her child who is at the age of parroting every spoken word. I'm sorry you spent every moment wondering if I was alive and making promises with every higher being you had ever heard mention of, for my safety. I'm sorry that you wished away every positive for my safety. I'm sorry that you had to listen to me, read my words, you had to hold me and you had to know that there was nothing you could do for me. I'm sorry that that's what you thought, but I hope you know you were wrong- you DID save me and not through any deal you tried to strike. I'm sorry that I can't show you how thankful I am, because there is nothing so great I could do, to adequately express that.

I want you to take me, take me as I am- alive, which is such a beautiful word and concept- and be proud of what I am going to achieve and your hand in getting me here. Your huge part in everything I will do. I promise, I'll live to show you my thanks. I will do something beautiful because I can. I CAN. I am alive and I am going to make my own luck and love.

Tuesday, 28 September 2010

My beautiful timetable.

I seriously needed to give this a post all of it's own. My beautiful uni timetable, for this semester:

Sunday, 26 September 2010

I am pretentious, but that's ok.

I haven't written a lot lately, that's because you can't force the written word. I write when I do, because it's all I can do; I get an itch, a desperate need to get out something, anything. Words become sentences, they dance into formation and I have to make a choice between allowing them to float into the abyss or trying lasso them into their physical form, into words on a screen. And the words haven't come to me much, I haven't had anything more than fleeting thoughts, that are too delicate or flighty to make into anything real. I realise this is an extremely pretentious thing to say, but I'm not going to apologise because I AM pretentious and you should know that by now.

I'm living in a sterile bubble right now and it's fine. It's too sterile for many thoughts or excitement (apart from when I got drunk and didn't take my meds and had a manic few days), but it'll pop soon enough. It's protection right now, though; it's formed of animal- physical and intellectual- hunger, of thoughts that die of exhaustion before they've even begun to be properly conceived. But I'll pop it and ride the tsunami, soon enough. I'm about ready to live again.

Monday, 20 September 2010

A new tattoo.

(I'm allowed to be a bit chubby, I'm a recovering Anorexic-Bulimic AFTER ALL ;))



Friday, 17 September 2010


My gap year is (according to my mum) now officially over. I go to university two weeks on Sunday, and she has just informed me that my gap year is up, now I just have 'a fortnights vacation' (please ignore that horrible American-Brit hybrid of a phrase, it's painful having a mum who works for an American company). It's strange. A year, have I changed? Of all the years of my life, I think maybe this is the year I have done the least amount of changing. Which I know is to be expected, really- everybody changes less each year, the difference between a child that is newborn and a child of a year old is the greatest difference that that child, that that person, will ever go through.

Wait, no. Hang on...

I'm contradicting myself and that's because I'm thinking as I type. Trauma (and I'm deliberately being ambiguous; trauma is totally subjective, after all), changes a person more, and maybe serious illness. I know I wrote before about the greatest difference between men being between the sick and the well, but what about the greatest difference within ONE man? You can put a sick man (I'm a feminist sympathiser, by the way- I'm using the word 'man' because that is what the word in the quote I wrote about, in 'A quote') next to a well man, but you can never line up the person you were when you were ill with the person you are well.

Maybe that's not the ultimate comparison anyway, though. Maybe the real change is between the person you would have been had you never been ill and the person that the illness produced. I don't think that illness or trauma or really anything that life throws ('that-that-that-that what don't kill me...') necessarily makes a person stronger. Maybe the way you deal with it does, but you don't have to be the strongest or the best person you can be, to get through a situation. No matter how bad it is, you generally just draw on what you know and go through unchanged- that what does not kill you does NOT always make you stronger.

People let themselves be soothed with the idea that whatever shit they had to go through was for the best, that they are now so much better. Because what if that's not the case? What if they're no better, no worse, but for a few more recent bad memories? Or what if it HAS actually made you worse, you're bitter or you're trapped in fear or, you know, you're just not all that nice any more?

I've been a nightmare to live with.

And so, have I changed? And if I have, have my changes been down to having had the illness or having got better? (I think I better add, I'm not just talking about my eating disorder, although I am a lot better than I was this time a year ago. I'm being general, I'm putting all the symptoms of all my diagnoses together.) Am I good, have I wore the changes well? Am I different from how I would have been, had I never been ill?

I think the main thing is responsibility. I am responsible now. Almost everybody holds the responsibility for their own life, they take the responsibility for self preservation and it's just sort of... a given. But with mental illness the level of responsibility fluctuates. I mean, I've had times when I haven't taken any sort of responsibility- I've moved like a zombie, in a different time zone and with the speed of my light moving differently, not taking any preserving actions and waiting for something to make a decision for me, to kill me or to save me. Then there are times when I get there, I get to where I'm genuinely sure I'm close to death, in one way or another, and I take a step back- my responsibility heightened because death seems almost inevitable. It's paradoxical, but it is as it is. The level goes up and down and the differences between the average person and the person suffering with some sort of mental illness are the peaks and dips- sometimes you have to take actions NOT to take your own life, for example. Instead of just NOT killing yourself, which every day most people do, you have to take a definite step against it- a phone call, whatever. Sometimes you genuinely don't care. And that's not 'normal', to fluctuate so greatly. And I am taking responsibility, I am choosing to live. And that is the ultimate change, perhaps.

Perhaps it's the only change. And so I must be better, although I stand by that I'm not necessarily better or stronger for having been ill or for having got better, getting better. I'm glad there is no way I can know for sure, how I could, should have lived to produce the best person I can be. Perhaps it was worth taking a year, just to find that I DO care, I DO care if I live or die. That's all it comes down to; a year ago I couldn't tell you whether I wanted to live or die, because either seemed bound by the restraints of the illness. I'm not free of the illness, not yet, but that's almost irrelevant because now I know, I get to choose. And I have chosen and that's all. And that has been my gap year.

Sunday, 12 September 2010


I am so, so tired. I'm not sleepy right now, my eyes aren't closing on themselves or owt, but I could really do to hibernate. Or stay in bed for a week, and read a lot of books and drink a lot of pepsi. That would actually be lovely, but being still makes me nervous at the moment. I feel like a blur, I'm constantly moving, even when I'm not, and that's what's so exhausting. Both my body and my brain are screaming to shut down just for a little bit, to re-energise and regenerate. I'm too highly strung.

I'm ok, though. I'm definitely ok.

I really hate my eating disorder. Just in case there was ever any doubt, which I wouldn't have thought there would have been, but you never know. I was very, very convinced that I was doing so well, food wise. It took me getting very drunk on Friday to realise that, actually, I'm not doing all that well at all, I'm just not eating very much and that's giving me a false sense of control, which I've been misunderstanding and filing away as summat not coming from the ED. Oh dear, that was a bit clinical- sometimes I find myself quoting all kinds of crap I've read about eating disorders. Also, I can spot somebody who has been over-therapised by how many many cliches they chuck out, like that one. IT'S ALL ABOUT CONTRRRRRRRRRROL, hahahahahaha.

I know I said before that I need to eat a bit more, but I'm finally going to start to do something about it. Swear down. After I've written this I'm going to make a new plan, because I do not want to be feeling this way when I go to uni (three weeks today, verrrry exciting) and I need to practise eating enough to have the energy to have fun. I am also bored of having nothing very interesting to say, what with being so tired that all I can think about is how tired I am and how much my body aches. I mean, my anxiety is lower, because I don't have the energy to be anxious, so it's easier to live in the real world... I'm just not living in a very interesting part of the real world and I really need to change that. There is no point in being, if that's all you're going to do, if you're just going to be a boring fuck.

And so I promise you now, next time I'll have summat interesting to write in this bloggy-wog. I mean, I've had some right adventures lately (I'm not a boring fuck, I just sound like one right now) so I could really tell you some corking stories. I'm just too knackered to put them together, into words.

Wednesday, 8 September 2010

A very boring post.

My hands are covered in cuts. It's odd, but the only way I can tell for sure that I am not eating enough, is that all the skin on my hands splits. I know that, in theory, there should be other ways, but I have really odd metabolism and so I can't tell by changes in my weight and I get light headed and have palpitations and all that no matter how high or low my intake. I'm not really sure how else somebody would realise that they weren't eating enough. I realised this at the weekend and I keep putting off upping my intake. I know that sounds a bit stupid, but I keep assuring myself that the new diet will start tomorrow, the new diet being more calories than the current one. How times change, hahaha.

The thing is, I don't need to gain weight and I could quite easily lose, um, a lot. I could maybe do with losing- NO. SHUT UP, BRAIN; I'm not getting into that. Part of me thinks that a few cuts in my hand is a fine price to pay, if I lose weight. But the other part knows that there just isn't any point. THERE IS NO POINT IN LOSING WEIGHT. It won't make me happier and it won't be fun- and I don't believe in doing anything, these days, that won't make me happier or won't be fun. But still, actually bringing myself to... not even stop losing weight, I could lose as much as I am doing now at a higher intake, because my metabolism is starting to crash from too few calories. But just eating a little more, I don't know. I'm definitely over-thinking it.

I need to stop trying to analyse it. Ok, new topic. I went to Cleethorpes on Monday, with Momma Ginge. Cue the funniest seaside trip, ever. It was freezing; so, so, so windy and early evening. Nobody else was about and- I don't think I'm doing this story justice, I'm actually howling as I type, but maybe you had to be there. SOZ'ARD. Right, I'm off- I need to get ready to go meet Lauren, we're off to the cinema and sneaking in vodka- excellent.




Friday, 3 September 2010


It was my birthday on Wednesday (bon anniversaire, Condom; ouioui) and so I celebrated leaving my teens in the most teenage way possible. It involved drinking vodka in a park at midday; drinking a bottle of cider in a pub; passing out for two and a half hours, in the middle of the afternoon, in the toilets of that pub. I'm pretty sure that if I could remember it, it'd be one I'd never forget- pure celebration. I had a right melt-down last year, over turning nineteen. I'm not really sure why exactly, but I think it was part the fact that I'm not a huge fan of odd numbers and part... I really don't know. I like twenty though, twenty sounds nice.

Well, I thought I liked the concept of twenty. Then I was playing with my cousin Harry last week, who mentioned something about, 'when I'm sixteen...' which got me thinking and I suddenly realised that when he's sixteen, I'll be thirty. That's semi-hideous. So I started writing my list of 'thirty things to do before thirty' but I only got 18, and that doesn't have a nice ring. That's the problem with having little cousins. Like, they're cute and everything but when they get to a nice age you get, well... old. Not that sixteen is an especially nice age, but you get me.

The other problem with turning twenty, which, now I think about it, isn't actually a problem with turning twenty, per se; is that I got so drunk that I was so drunk and so really shittingly ill (which is more down to the cider itself than a hangover, if you get me. If I'd got that drunk on anything but cider, I wouldn't have got so sick). Ohhh, I've just read back that sentence and although it makes no sense, I'm going to leave it in because it seems appropriately nonsensical.

Anyway, being that drunk completely mucked up my recent eating pattern, which has actually been really good. I've been eating... enough. More than enough to fuction and I haven't really been doing much at all that's equal to the usual FUCK YOU I give my body. I've been exercising a bit obsessively, but I'm so lazy that my obsessive exercising means maybe about a three hour walk a day, nothing high impact. It's been odd, actually. Lovely, but odd. It's new to me- it's what I was saying before, it feels very unsteady, precarious, and I feel very fragile, but still- the healthiest I've eaten and, really, the healthiest I've been (outside of hospital) for years. Yesterday especially was ridiculous though, it was like my eating used to be and it scared me, because I can't do that anymore. Physically or mentally- my body has been too ill from the effects these last few months. And I want too much, I want to be able to do too much and be out there, doing beautiful things, and so I don't have time for an eating disorder. Or the inclination to let it keep up. I woke up this morning feeling oddly calm because I knew straight away that I was strong enough to fight it, I wasn't going to have another bad day.

So all in all, not a bad start to twenty.

Sunday, 29 August 2010

'Have you ever been so hungry that it keeps you awake?'

Have you ever listened to any of the crap that spills out of Tinie Tempah? Don't get me wrong, I don't know why you would have- I haven't written you off as a Tinie fan or owt. I mean, he's one of those acts that, if he hadn't have mentioned Scunny in one of his songs ('I'm pissed I never got to fly on a concord, I've been to Southampton but I've never been to Scunthorpe'- yeah, rhyming Scunthorpe with concord. Skillz), and if I wasn't one of those people who get ridiculously excited every time their hometown comes on the radio or telly (I get to be excited quite often; drug deaths or racial stabbings or just bad crime, health or education statistics), he wouldn't have even appeared on my radar; I'd probably never have heard of him.

But since I'm constantly expecting him to come up with an ode to Scunny now, I did pick up on his latest song. Or maybe I just did because I pick up on anything vaguely relating to eating disorders or mental illness or owt... Probably more likely the latter, one day I'll grace this blog with the list of celebrities I'm conviced have eating disorders, complete with my own evidence. The lines in his latest abomination, 'but have you ever been so hungry that it keeps you awake/ mate, now my hunger would leave them amazed' really confused the shit out of me. I'm one of those people who just doesn't get hunger as a THING- I can't understand why anybody would let themselves get hungry. I know that seems a bit ironic and/or hypocritical from me (although I don't get hungry very often. I don't think people really do, after they've had Anorexia), but I think I've earnt the right to be a hypocrite- just try and tell me you're going on a diet, and listen to the lecture I'll give you; I know my stuff. But anyway, the song. I've just read all the lyrics and I get now that he's bitching that he used to be skint, not that he wishes he could walk in the snow without leaving a footprint, but still. If you're hungry (and, y'know, sane), eat summat. There're ways, even if you are skint.

So shut your face, Tinie, and eat a bloody sandwich.

Wednesday, 25 August 2010

A quote.

'It occurred to me that there was no difference between men, in intelligence or race, so profound as the difference between the sick and the well.'
-The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald.

The thing with being ill, and I'm talking about any type of illness, not just mental, is that recovery tends to be gradual. And so you don't get to properly see, within yourself, a clear comparison between being ill and being well. I mean, I know you can look back and you can think about the days where you physically didn't have the energy to even lift your head; or the days where you became hysterical at the mere thought of leaving the house; or the days where you threw up every 20 minutes, from waking up until you passed out from exhaustion; or the nights spent in screaming agony, in the foetal position, on the bathroom floor... but it's still not the same. Memory distorts things and you start to doubt it, how could you have survived if it was as bad as you remember? No, let me rephrase that- memory holds fast, it blurs, but it holds. The mind starts to distort it; maybe it's too painful to think that it was real, it was all real, because if you've been there before there's more of a chance you'll end up there again, than there would be if you had never been ill.

That scares me, the things I have done to my body, the things the disease has done to my body, over the years could so easily all be repeated. I could wake up tomorrow with a very acute and desperate need to take, for example, another destructive cocktail of pills or to eat 12,000 empty calories. I feel like I'm on the knife edge right now, I'm balanced somewhere between sick and well. Theoretically, it could go either way. Or I could be on this knife edge forever, maybe this knife edge is as well as I'll ever be. For physical illness, I suppose the comparison isn't really important, it would be interesting, perhaps, to get it, but as a motivational tool it's insignificant. Mentally it's different, you need to know that there really is a difference between sick and well, it's worth the treatment possibly being worse than the disease. A day of health would be better than any prescription, seeing how quickly you get so ill again after, too.

I don't know, I think I was maybe lucky, I got to have a comparison, I got to see the difference between being sick and well in myself, I got an overnight health boost when I got tubed. I don't want to make it into something it wasn't, at the end of the day, being tube-fed was an awful, awful experience that came at the end of a series of terrible events. The first half of this year was not good for me. But I got the comparison. I suddenly got it, I got to see the profound difference and, in seeing that, I realised what I'd been missing and how ill I'd been all these years. When you have been so ill for over a decade, to suddenly be completely healthy, physically... wow. After being ill for that long you forget what well feels like completely, the bar lowers. But anyway, this is my focus, it's why I can now look forward; there really is no profound a difference. I wish I could have realised that in a less drastic way, I could have understood how much of a mess my body was in. But what happened, happened. It's gone, it's all gone now.

Monday, 23 August 2010


I have a bloody awful headache and it's irritating me. Not the ache itself, I can hack that because I'm well 'ard, but the fact that I have no reason to have a headache. I mean, I haven't been bashing my head against a wall or trying to change the TV channel with my eyes or staring at burning magnesium or owt. I've eaten and I've drank but I haven't drank owt good. That may well be the problem, I need vodka. There is also a very good chance now that my headache is now sticking around either to piss me off or because of the brain power that I'm wasting over the big question (WHY HAS REBECCA CONDRON GOT A HEADACHE? is a far bigger question than anything about life, love and the universe), because I've munched my way through 6 paracetamol in the last hour, so by rights my liver should be frowning and tutting at me and my head should be just fine.

I need to work on patience- I always get too drunk (if such a state exists) because I expect to be drunk as soon as I've taken my first slog of vodka, I always forget that you have to wait a bit for the booze to hit the blood. I'm the same with pills... The amount of times I've got a bit too valium happy and slept for 20 hours, hahahahaha. Oh wow, actually, fuck patience. My headache is lifting. And anyway, my liver is just fine, thank you- I have a lot of physicals because of how mean I am to my body and so all is a-ok. Sometimes I reckon that if I did things as prescribed (eat, drink, sleep, etc. etc.) my body would get so bored that I'd get a peanut allergy. No, seriously, I've heard that's what allergies are- it's your immune system creating work, just for kicks. That's why you don't get them in third world countries (also, I don't think there's much you can be allergic to in rice)- immune systems are too busy fighting off the shits and that, to give themselves allergies.

Allergies are right attention seeking, when you think about it. It's a pure type, it's your immune system getting bored and wanting a platform in your body, but still. I'm allergic to anesthetic, THAT'S how much of an attention seeker I am. I used to be really proud of that, but then I realised that it's actually really not that uncommon and I was gutted- I liked to think I was special.

Saturday, 21 August 2010

I shouldn't blog drunk.

This is the first ever episode in the world that I've ever seen of The X-Factor and it's horrible, horrible, horrible; everybody is mean to each other and there're too many feelings running about all over the stage and the screen and the ceiling and everywhere. I don't like people (like Meatloaf and the people on Supernanny US and Wife Swap US) who FEEL too much. Oh, and heart are breaking and people getting sad and the judges are mean and all anybody wants is to make money and people go WAAAAAAH and it's bad and cringe-er-roony. I want the judges to be like, 'HEY, YOU'RE DEAD GOOD' and for that to be the end of it. It's OK if they're not commercial or they're not, um... talented. Whatever. Just be like, 'you don't have the best voice ever, but I like the hair coming out of your ears. Well done!' Or, 'that wasn't my favourite listening experience, but you seem like a nice person and I bet you don't vote Tory and congratulations for having eyes!'

I want everybody to go home happy and drink wine and for there to be lots of hugs, except not to me because I like fights more than hugs. Especially when people have proper fights and it sort of looks like they're hugging, because that's funny and you get to shout, 'FIGHT-FIGHT-FIGHT!' and cheer and sometimes people get hurt and that's only sometimes good, like if you get blood on you. I think if political summits were sponsored by Moskova (Morrison's own brand vodka) there would be no nuclear weapons or global warming or baddies or wars or people that're mean or, um... robbers.

M'off, now we're watching Bring It On.

Thursday, 19 August 2010

Living with fitties.

Um... disclaimer. Can I stick a disclaimer on here? I want to deny responsibility for quite how bloody GAY (yes, gay as a derogatory term) this is going to sound and, take the right to take the piss out of me away from you. And I would like to say, um... DORT JUDJ MEH, yeah?

Anyway, the gay. Through the wonder that is facebook and through my killah stalking skills, on the wonder that is facebook (alright, this really didn't even begin to test my incredible abilities- I'm dead creepy. If I was Dappy I'd have found that lass. I need to stop making N-Dubz references- I honestly believe my life would be more fulfilled if I wasn't such an N-Dubz fan), I have come to the conclusion that next year I will be living in a compound of fitties. Foreign fitties. And this is leading to a very pathetic mardy sulk, at how everybody will be fitter than me and how I will be the token ugly and blahblah. My mum is trying to put out my little, gay, insecure paddy-type thing, by telling me that I'm quirky. Which is hilarious- it's ok that I'm not tall and slim and FIT and, like, foreign (foreign adds at least 10 fit points, right?) because I am short and fat and ginger and have an odd face and I'm northern and dress funny, hahahahahaha.

Aye, I sound horribly judgemental, I'm just having one of those pathetic girl days. I probably just should take some valium, hang on. Alrighty, sorted; deeeeeeelicious.

I'm getting excited for uni, which really hasn't a lot to do with actually going to uni. No, what I mean is my getting excited RIGHT NOW isn't to do with going in 5 or 6 weeks. It's more to do with my gap year being almost up, if that makes sense- it's a year as of now that I decided to take a year out. It hasn't been the best year of my life. I'm really am slightly concerned about the volume of fitties, since a walk through Scunny makes you feel deliciously, well, delicious- the people are not the most beautiful (SHUT UP, JUDGEMENTAL BRAIN). And I can always rely on a walk down Steelworks road to get me a lot of male attention and beeps, thus VALIDATING MY LIFE. Fitties aside, I'm ready to go and for some fun and some being YOUNG. I want to be 20, instead of feeling 80. Although I wouldn't mind hanging onto my love of drinking like a 13 year old. A hard 13 year old (I can't drink cider or alcopops). I should also probably learn to get my kicks without relying on the dregs of society, when I wander through the ghetto. Summat to add to the to-do list.

Monday, 16 August 2010

Sometimes it takes an almost-six-year-old boy to say it.

"Look at this, look at this... THIS IS DISGUSTING!" (Raises t-shirt and breathes in so that all his ribs show) "You can see my bones and it's GROSS" (Hysterical laughter).
-Harry Duff.

Stuff's moving, I feel like I'm almost living in the real world. Sort of. I went to Manchester on Saturday and had a really brilliant time- it turns out that it's not normal for men to presume that they can just come up to you and put their hands in your knickers on the dancefloor. Molestation being an (awful, but) expected part of a night out is purely a Scunthorpe thing. But then I came back down to life and ruined the buzz on the Sunday; I flipped. It was horrible, I felt odd all morning and then in the middle of a shopping centre I had that sensory thing, you know when your senses are suddenly heightened and every noise vibration physically hurts and everything's too bright and colours too vivid and you're massively paranoid and the speed and viscosity of the atmosphere is... warped, like the video to Ray of Light and then like wading through treacle? It was all I could do not to sit on the floor and to scream and scream and scream. So I left pretty sharpish, train home and weekend over.

But that was that. The real world. Oh, and leading on from my last blog, Dr Wanker is no longer my esteemed doctor; I genuinely think, probably because I'm terminally arrogant, that I had a hand in getting him fired. I now have another bloke, who I saw on Thursday and who thinks I'm relapsing (into what, I have no idea) and has upped my meds and put me on happy pills. I've sorted bits for uni- accomodation and the such. I did a medical questionaire so I can register with the doctor down there, which made me giggle because my medical history just for the last 12 months is vast. I still haven't bought anything practical and I daren't check my account, but still. I'm doing things, I'm being practical. I realised today how different things are now to where they were last year; it's A-Level results day on Thursday (obviously not for me, since I didn't do any exams this year) and on results day last year I was given an hour out of hospital to go collect them and then spent the night crying because I just really wanted to be drunk. Very different.

Wednesday, 11 August 2010

Betsy the (tattooed) bumble bee.

I always think that making a stand not to weigh myself will make me happier, because as a general rule I'm the biggest follower of the IGNORANCE IS BLISS school of thought. I have a bumble bee tattooed on my belly, have I ever written about that? 'Aerodynamically, the bumble bee shouldn't be able to fly, but the bumble bee doesn't know it so it goes on flying anyway.' That's a reyt quote, right there. Now, Wikipedia shows that to be a bit of bullshit, but that's ok because I'm also fully enrolled in the BEAUTIFUL LIES ARE BETTER THAN UGLY TRUTHS school, which is actually a department in the ignorance academy. Just so you know.

But not weighing myself is not brilliant, because of the whole thing about eating disorders distorting vision and blahblah. You know, I'M NOT FAT, IT'S JUST THAT MY COGNITIVE DISTORTIONS ARE ALL I CAN SEE (I'm really knocking out the lines tonight, I'm on fire). I start off feeling good, but then I start to imagine my weight as being far higher and it all gets a bit ugly and I become a hermit and it's really actually awful. I weighed myself today, after a bad few weeks food-wise and anxiety-wise and found I was 4kg less than I expected. So suddenly the thought of spending tomorrow afternoon drinking tea with Smelliott, Friday in Leeds and then Saturday out in Manchester is all really, really lovely. Well, Friday isn't THAT lovely, since I'm not doing anything exciting in Leeds... BUT STILL. At least I'm not getting worked up about being (dundundun) seen by the general public and that is always a win, as my lovely Ais-Ga would say. In fact, I'm quite excited about the next few days.

The only cloud though, is tomorrow morning I have an appointment with my new psychiatrist, who is also the bloke who very, very nearly got me sectioned in June. My mum made an official complaint about the whole debacle and then he made me cry, hahahahaha. I know, it's gay of me but I'm actually pretty scared of the guy. That's the problem with psychiatrists, they have too much power. They know too much. They can do too much. But never mind, I'll wear something ridiculous and lisp a bit and then get out and go pick up my pillz and then come home for my tea date with Smelliott. Lovely.

Tuesday, 10 August 2010

Squeezy kidneys.

I remember the first time I realised I could read. I remember that I was 4 and I remember how I was sitting and where I was sitting and the time of day and where my mum was (although I don't remember where my brother was. Sorry James, nowt personal) and that I ate a banana afterwards. I remember that the first time I watched Peter Pan, when I was about 3, I was eating a banana at a point where Captain Hook puts a sword in the map. Now every time I watch it, I taste banana. I remember the night before I first went abroad, I was 7 and wearing a Forever Friends nighty and I picked a scab on my knee and it stuck to it, then I ate a banana. I can remember the exact lay-out of page 23 of my GCSE French revision guide (it was about weather, not les bananes. I swear, not all my memories revolve around bananas) and how my teacher told Momma Ginge and I that I'd only get an E, because I never went to lesson. And I remember telling her I'd get an A. And I remember getting an A. I don't remember some beautiful days (well, mainly nights) and not remembering is a beautiful rememberance.

You can have a right adventure through your memories, I've had a fun day out today. Generally, I only remember the bad things. I have flashbacks and nightmares of horrible things, and that doesn't really make for a nice day out. So today I read a really, really fantastic book and finished a really, really fantastic book and drank some Pepsi Max and spent some time being utterly mental. Mental, like... mental maths. Um, yeah.

Had I blogged first thing today, (or yesterday, or the day before, or...) then this would have been yet another bit of a garbled fukmalyf shite. So I waited out the storm, although storm is not at all the right word for it; it was more like drizzle, and now here I am. It's garbled, but it's not fukmalyf.

My kidneys are squeezy today, I think they might be getting infected. I like infections, I like anti-biotics. I might be sort of hypochondriac-ing this a little bit, although generally I'm pretty much the opposite of a hypochrondiac, a hyperchondriac? Honestly, how long did I go without getting Quasimodo eye sorted? My whole body looks ill right now. There's no other way to describe it. I'm not underweight or owt, but my hair is that horrible malnourished colour and dry and brittle and... blech. I'm going to dye it dark because that usually makes it look healthier. But I'll miss being ginge. My skin looks yellow-y and dull and my eyes are flat and so on and so on. All the joys of malnourishment without even getting to be slim. OK, OK, fukmalyf ;)

Raw Shark Texts Pictures, Images and Photos

Thursday, 5 August 2010


I haven't been very well, but not in an especially exciting way. Just in a, you know, snotty and crappy way. But I did major wallowing and had a nice few fukmalyf days and it seems a shame not to acknowledge them, even though I don't really have a lot to say about the germ party. So oui, I had a germ party. The end.

I never have any money. I'm on benefits and I'm really not as ashamed of that as people would like me to be or as ashamed as people try to make me, by trying to make me justify my life ('so what do you do, Rebecca?' 'I eat a lot.' 'No, I mean what do you DO... Do you work?' 'Oh, no. I'm signed off sick' 'Oh. Right. What do you do when you're not signed off?' 'Well, I've been ill for quite a while and, um... I'm on a bit of a gap year and...' ). I mean, I have no intention of spending the rest of my life on benefits but right now, doctor will not LET me work and so I couldn't legally get a job, even if I thought I was well enough.

But anyway, it means I never have any money. I get £90 a week, of which I give my mum £25, so really I have £65. Which is actually quite a nice sum when you consider my mum buys my food and, um, tampons and deo for my BO and shit. But you also have to remember, Bulimia is bloody expensive. My mum buys me my, I don't know a word to describe it- she buys me food for meals and then I buy my binges. It seems odd (since I binge on the meal food, too) but it's just how it works out. A normal binge day is liable to cost £30, my laxative and diuretic habit can run to that much in a week.

And so I have got clever. I only buy clothes in sales or from charity shops, which is fine because I can't stand being on trend. I steal public transport- I am an actual genius at it because I'm a damn good actress. I binge on the cheapest, nastiest food you can imagine (I'm vegetarian. Not because I give a shit about animals, but because I'm not willing to eat the testicals and eye lids of shit pigs) which means I can get a day, 10 or 12 binges, for not much more than a fiver (it's difficult to express of much of a talent and how useful of one this is). I walk 2 miles to buy the cheapest Pepsi in town (I drink 2l of Pepsi Max a day). When I go out, I take tea bags in my handbag because most places will give you free take-away hot water. But even with my genius and my talent at being poor, I still end up constantly skint.

My money for the fortnight (so, £180) came into my bank on Friday and by Sunday I had £25. Monday and today were baaaaaaaaad Bulimic days (on Monday, my nose wouldn't stop bleeding from throwing up so much and right now my face is so disfigured for swollen glands) and so now I am utterly wiped out for another week. But I had a very excellent day out last Friday (I might blog about it tomorrow, it deserves to be written about) and then I bought a dress, a hat and some sunglasses online (in case you were wondering, the hat is excellent and the dress and sunnies are coming tomorrow). It's nightmare-ish, I have 2 months before uni and I NEED a laptop. I want to sort out my wrist tattoo (it wass meant to be tongue in cheek and boring fuckers give me hate over it. And I'm bored of it, so I want it covered). I need so much for uni and I just can't save- I spend my money as soon as I get it on clothes, because otherwise I know I'll vom' it away. Oh, the expense of being tapped!

Sunday, 1 August 2010

A month to go.

I have exactly a month left of being a teenager. I'm not sentimental about leaving these years, I've wasted all my teenage years being ill and just generally having a bit of a shit time, so being able to draw a line under it all is utterly fine by me. Birthdays always depress me, though. It's definitely something about getting older, which is really very illogical, I know- every second we are getting older and birthdays don't alter the speed of the aging process or anything. And besides, I'm still very young. But I don't know, it's odd. We put too much emphasis on the amount of candles on a cake, I think.

But there's also something about it being an annual event, a day is singled out and remembered every year. I know that's the intention of it, you're supposed to be commemorating the day you were born, but really it carries far more baggage than that. I don't remember the 1st of September 1990, but I remember the day in 1994, 1995, 1996 and every year since, which means every year you're commemorating a little more, every previous birthday and not really the first. I don't remember exactly what I did on, say, the 12th of March last year, but I know exactly what I did on the first of September- and so every year on my birthday, I'm reminded of where I was a year ago far more than I am on any other day of the year. Do you understand what I'm saying, am I making sense?

I don't want to reflect on where I have been, and I don't think I will until I'm not there, not HERE, anymore. When I'll be able to see the change and how far I have come and know that I have finally grown up and stopped with this childish shit. And can I tell you something really tragic? I know my exact weight, right down to the pound, from every first of September since 2001, when I turned 11.

At the same time though, birthdays are nothing. It's what I was saying before, it doesn't alter the aging process. I don't know a lot about many animals (elephants don't have bone-marrow in their feet. Koalas have forked knobs. And that's about it. So actually, I don't really know anything about any animals) but I'm willing to bet that humans are the only ones who hold any significance over the exact day of birth. It's all just a blur, shit happens, we live, we breathe, we grow- on every day of the year. But still, every year I want something to happen. No, I EXPECT something to happen; to have some sort of epiphany or to feel different. But birthdays are such a depressing anti-climax, even when you think you don't want to have one. Maybe I should go away from the day. Get on a train and go on an adventure and spend it with people who don't even know my name, let alone my birthday.

Monday, 26 July 2010

RIP, Grandpa.

I wish I wasn't on track to repeat my mistakes.


Sunday, 25 July 2010

Engaging in some serious life fucking.

I'm being eaten alive by guilt, and I'm tempted to indulge myself and to type out the story of what I've done. What I haven't done, what I should have done and what I should do. Or maybe to write about how everything could have gone and how I SHOULD be feeling right now, to lose myself in an idea, in a place where I did what any decent person should have done, would have done. Grief is a luxury, grief is healing; wallowing in guilt is horribly self-indulgent, it achieves nothing.

I'm really not sure what to do. I'm sorry, I'm talking in circles and that's because in the last few lines, I've realised that I don't want to tell you what I'm feeling so guilty about, because then you'll be obliged to try to-

Oh, I don't know. Maybe you should disregard all of what I just typed. I'm not going to delete it, because everything I've written is true. But I know I've not really SAID a lot but don't worry, I'm done.

I'm really down right now, I'm angry at myself. I'm... just fed up, really. And even when I'm upset over something entirely separate to my appearance, like now, every fat cell in my body triples in size. I feel grotesque, deformed and I just want to lay in bed, with Pepsi Max and some books, until I lose some serious weight. And maybe I'll do that, that's actually sounding a really intelligent plan to me right now. I'm tired of how ugly this all is and how I'm just indulging the worst parts of who I am, instead of trying to be something. I always say I want to do or be something, but I'm just wasting any talent I might have. I'm wasting everything, sitting here feeling guilty. So, so ugly.

And now I'm waiting for the news and waiting for it all to get so much worse.

Wednesday, 21 July 2010

Ambition and lovelyness.

I'm watching My Super Sweet 16 (don't judge. I SAID, don't judge. One day, I will get very, very deep and nobody will know what's going on and I'll probably get very fat and sublimely calm and beautifically mellow, like only the very deep can be) and there's a girl on it and, right, she's the heir to Spam. And OH MY LIFE, how it's inspiring me. WHAT WILL MY LEGACY BE? I'm into the idea of legacy right now, because I want to be remembered, rather than mourned. Like, when everyone who has known me personally is dead, I want a gay popstar in a glittery coat and killah sunglasses to write a song about me. But I don't want it rewritten for a dead princess. And so, I think it's time for a brand spankingly new life plan.

(I feel I should clear up now- My Super Sweet 16 is really not inspiring me to work out my legacy. I'm feeling lovely right now, you see, and so I am making A TOTAL AND PRECISE LIFE PLAN, because I like plans and the better I feel, the more sweeping they can be. I'm basically writing my autobiography backwards and it will all happen exactly as I plan it, because I am very in control and wonderful right now)

I think that if you built a time machine and went back and interviewed who you were as a child, you could probably work out exactly how your life will go. There're probably clues, you know? Of course, if you built a time machine you've really got all the clues you need. You will get very rich, but only until a baddie steals your time machine and goes back and nicks the formula for time travel, from a time before you built the jobby and then you'll never know and you'll... well, isn't that a conundrum? Maybe I built a time machine yesterday and one of you bastards stole it from me. You bastards.

When I was little I was a complex soul. Maybe those were my deep days. I was going to be a rabbit when I grew up and I didn't understand the why we didn't just ship all the poor people in Africa to England, where they could go to school and to the shops and use taps and the grown ups could have a job. The first one is pretty easily explained- I have a brother who is 2 years older than me and fucked me up summat chronic. He had me convinced that girls grew up into men and boys became women. I believed that for ages, until about last year when I realised that, hairy as I am, I just haven't grown any (literal or metaphorical) balls yet. With my killer logic, I deduced that if I was going to make such a big change, like to being able to wee standing up, becoming a rabbit wouldn't be such a big leap, if that's what I so desired. And I did. Desire I mean, I still haven't realised that dream. The Africa one was also perfectly logical, I was going to share my bed with an African girl because Africans were so skinny and wouldn't take up much room. I can remember my mum telling me that there wasn't room in the country and then try to explain the welfare system (and quickly realise the difficulties in doing so to a 5 year old) and then finally just tell me that some English people don't like it when people from Africa come over.

So what clues does that lot of crap give? I am (still) moronically idealistic; I am going to do something so big and so beautiful that I'll make some sort of mark, somewhere. Maybe I won't be a rabbit, (but hey, maybe I will be), but I'll change something that needs changing or do something that needs to be doing. That's another clue to the Rebecca Condron of the present and future, to be drawn from my interview with Rebecca Condron, circa 1995/6- ambiguity.


And so I'll get back to you details, yeah? It will be lovely.

Tuesday, 20 July 2010

'You don't frolick in the rain in Belfast, you run from the bullets'

Saturday was lovely, spent with my two absolute best friends ever; one of which I met for the first time (internet dating, God love it ;)), 'cause she lives in Belfast, where the bullets are. I feel like I should blog about the day but it was too lovely and I don't think I could do it justice- I couldn't capture the feel. But since that's a bit pretentious a reason, I'll come up with another... um, typing about it, might, like, um, taint it with some sort of computer, um, virus. I don't know what I'm talking about either, shhh- be quiet, like a terrorist. But anyway, I wanted to acknowledge how fantastic it was. IT WAS FANTASTIC, the end.

I'm going to show you some pictures and let you enjoy them and then maybe blog about summat proper tomorrow. I have a lot to say, but I really did to do a bit of BIG UP, BIG UP to Smelliott and Ais-Ga (and Tanya, if she's reading! Because she's fantastic, too.)

Smelliott, Ais-Ga, me:

Ais-Ga, me:

Tanya, me, Ais-Ga, Smelliott. Big love:

Friday, 16 July 2010

Some words to live by, kids.

'Yet few truer words have been spoken; a full belly is prerequisite to all manner of good. Without that, no man knows what hunger will make him do.'

I was channel hopping the other night, and I came across some film or other about an Irish con' who did a runner from a jail (I presume a jail? Can you be a con' if you're not in jail? He might not actually have been a con', you know, now I think about it) and became a cannibal. I'm not sure exactly why he became a cannibal, because I didn't actually WATCH the film, because I'm this weird mix of OCD and pure arrogance when it comes to my time. My time is very, very important. See, I get so terrified of watching films that I haven't seen before in case I don't like them, and then I'll have wasted my time and I will NEVER get that time back. Mind-blowing(ly arrogant). I also will not finish a book if by the second or third page I don't think it's going to be the ABSOLUTE BEST BOOK I HAVE EVER READ IN MY WHOLE ENTIRE LIFE. I don't watch any television programmes that run in serial- you know, anything that you have to watch regularly to keep up with. No soaps or anything and-

Wow, tangent.

So, this film. Actually, the film is really not important (although you have an urge to see a film about some Irish bloke who eats other people, it's called The Last Confession of Alexander Pearce), because the only Irish people who matter are Ais-Ga and B*Witched. The line is excellent though, and so very true.

Hunger, pure animal hunger... Instinct, the moment that the survival instinct kicks in- I tell you, nobody should ever know that hunger. Nobody should ever try to fight their instincts and nobody should ever HAVE to fight them- natural famine or disease, whatever. And it's true- no good can come from that hunger, all good requires a fullness. A natural fullness, not the physical fullness of a Bulimic, either; the Bulimic is never really full. I'm not going to expoit the person I have been by telling you horror stories of things that hunger has made me do. Instead, I'm going to sit back with the quiet confidence of a person who knows, KNOWS, that a real fullness is prerequisite for all manner of good and a confidence in a future without the worry of what hunger will push me to do.

Isn't that nice? I have done well this week, I have done very well, apart from the fact that I've been eating diuretics like a child eats sweets. My sleep is bad at the moment- my anxiety has kept me up and when I do fall asleep, I keep waking every half hour of so, physically frozen with fear about all sorts of ridiculous things- but I've done well, food-wise. It's excitement, tomorrow will be the first day I have ever, EVER spent with my two best friends and hunger will not ruin it.

All manner of good. ALL MANNER OF GOOD.