Thursday, 29 April 2010


Every time, I vow never again. I don't know if I'm getting better or worse, I took 40 a day until I went into hospital and then I stopped cold turkey. I've taken 30 each day since Monday. I'm barely conscious, and I'm sorry this is disjointed- I haven't slept at all and I've more than likely just shat out my brain. I wish I could shit out my thighs. I am a stereotype right now, a pathetic one at that, curled up on my bathroom floor typing on my phone, as a distraction. It hurts. It hurts so much, that any more and I know from experience I'll pass out. I feel sick, but I haven't the energy. I am cold and shakey and I need to move, but I haven't the energy. I need to sleep, but I haven't the energy for that, either.

This is pathetic. Get it together, Condron. I'm so far over this crap, it's unreal and I don't have any pretty words or even any half way relevant metaphors to describe it. No witticisms. A touch of irony perhaps- the antibiotics I'm taking for Quasimodo Eye had given me the shits, anyway.

I really can't do this again- I sacrificed my sanity by taking laxatives instead of my meds last night and I am so embarrassed and ashamed of that. I'm too fragile to fuck around, my sanity is too fragile, and maybe I'm worth more. You know what? I'd choose anything over an eating disorder. I need to put my money where my mouth is.

Monday, 26 April 2010


In hundreds of years time, people will point up at statues and say, 'that's Rebecca Condron. You don't ever see a representation of her without a LION ON HER HEAD.' I'll be like Robert Burns and his pigeon (now I Google him, I can't actually find an image of a statue of him with a pigeon. Maybe I dreamt that. But the sentiment STILL STANDS so shhhhh. Be quiet, like a terrorist), but not because I am fitter and lions aren't vermin.

I don't ever want to be forgotten, I want to be... Something. I want to be someone. No, that's not right at all- I want to be more than that. I want to DO something. I want to bring positive change and, and... IMPACT. For life, for lives. It's by no means even the main reason why I want to do something humaitarian, but let me tell you- being forgotten is one of my biggest fears. It ranks up there with MILK and BEING NORMAL. Oh, and jeans. Jeans are somewhere up in the list, along with- No, wait, I'm not going to go into a list of my fears. I'll save that for another day, it's a fascinating list, much like my list of OAPs who I'd like to do (ahem) and things that makes me want to set fire to my skin.

With some things, I want to be anonymous. I want to be invisible usually when i'm out of the house and sometimes when I'm in. I can't stand being visible when I've eaten that day. And when I die, I want to decompose into the earth- I want to be fertiliser and worm food and to forever be part of the earth and the wind and the sea and the food cycle- I want to be breathed in by the great and the good and the lovely, and to be a part of everything. I want to be eaten by little creatures, that get eaten by bigger creatures, that get eaten by even bigger creatures. I want to be absorbed by trees that grow 100m tall, and a part of... I want to go around and around and for my presence to be there in something, for it all and for ever.

But that's what I want in death. In life, I want to get out there- into the real world. Or maybe I want to want it. But either way, I can't. I feel so, so cheated that everybody seems to have given up on me, but at the same time I can't handle people having any faith in me. I find pressure everywhere, and the tiniest bit of perceived pressure pushes me right back. To the point that when I need to go get a prescription or something, I spend hours beforehand in a literal quivering mess of panic attacks, because I HAVE to go out; it's an expectation that somebody, somewhere has- that I'll get that presciption. I find it so, so hard to leave my house. Actually, I find it hard to leave my bedroom, a lot of the time. I push myself, I can't explain how hard I work, and I DO go out a few times a week- usually not for anything social, because I get too panicked to handle company. But I do try to go out, because I can't give in any further to this. I'm so desperate to break out and I'm so ambitious. But I'm at my limit- I can't push any further. I'm barely holding it together right now. I'm a waste and a parasite and I feel disgusting for it- I do nothing and so I AM nothing, because I can do nothing. Except hide- I hide. I'm stuck. I'm caged. I'm... I'm raw.

But I feel like I could explode with the potential I know I have because the thing is, I'm so sure that could be someone. I now have that pissing Tracy Chapman song in my head ('And I-I-I had a feeling that I belonged, And I-I-I had a feeling I could be someone, be someone, be someone'), but that's ok because I DO have a feeling that I could be someone. But even just typing that is making my heart race and breathing quicken. No expectation, no expectations.

I need people to have the faith in me that I don't have, but to expect nothing. It's a paradox- how to be invisible, but not forgotten; how to be somebody and be nothing; to run but to never go outside- and it's selfish. I need you to carry me, and I'll always be sorry for my weakness.

I expect so much of people, I know. But as a representation of how these stupid disorders get in the way of life, how I've been condemned to squander any potential, I wanted to blog about the election (erection, hahaha) and politics and... everything. I kick arse in politic-y fights (almost literally, the fight I had with a poor Tory door-knocker in Dumfries was excellent, a type of excellence only matched by his reaction when, after a good 10 minutes of tryin to argue with me, he was told by my grandma that I didn't even live within that constituency) so I have plenty to say. Type. Say. And I haven't said anything about anything that I care about, that I can argue my case on, because I'm too busy trapped in my head.

I DO expect so much of people, but I expect even more of myself. Just please, God, don't expect anything of me.

Friday, 23 April 2010

Quasimodo eye.

I had a truly excellent trip to A&E yesterday. Oh wait, let me back track a little... I AM QUASIMODO. I shit you not. Well, almost. I have terrible posture (I didn't realise until last week, but now I'm hyper-aware of it. It's funny, because I put so much effort into my posture when I was about 13, because I heard good posture burnt more calories) and I can speak about 10 words of French and I talk to gargoyles and I HAVE A DEFORMED EYE. Oh shit the bed, Quasi was ginger too, right? My hair is purple at the moment, but the ginger is coming back through. It's weird that Quasimodo was ginger, when you think about it, because his parents were gypos so you'd think he'd have dark hair and that. I guess it's summat to do with gingers being UGLY AND WEIRD AND DEFORMED.

So, the deformed eye.

When I was in fat camp (eating disorder treatment, hahaha), I got 5 styes. Probably summat to do with all the nutrients in the tinned mushrooms and potatoes (TINS, GLORIOUS TINS! POTATOES, FRUIT AND MUSHROOOOOOMS!) just erupting from me. I'm not used to such goodness, clearly. One of them has been knocking about since then and has evolved into a beast. Seriously, it's on the verge of growing nails and hairs and tentacles, and I am on the verge of getting an Extraordinary People TV programme made about me. I finally saw my GP about it on Monday (I have to go to the doctors every week, to get my Bipolar meds because they won't give me more than a weeks worth at once, because I'm a risk to myself. Hahahaha. But because I'm there so much, I don't like making extra appointments) and he booked me in to get in sliced in a few weeks time, in Goole. Seriously, Goole. Before it goes wrong and I am utterly blinded, the last sights I will see are Goole. I'm soaking up all the Scunny goodness I can, I want the steelworks imprinted on my brain if I'll be blind for ALL ETERNITY.

Poor Quasimodo eye really inflated this week though, and Momma Ginge took me to A&E yesterday, because she was worried that it would explode and the fallout would be even worse than the Iceland volcano thing and there would be no aeroplanes in the ENTIRE WORLD that could fly and I'd be sued by everyone. I might have to go into script form for the conversation with the dr, because it was brilliant and you should really, really want to act it out.

(Momma Ginge and I walk in, I'm wearing sunglasses)
Doctor- what can I help you wi-
(I remove my sunglasses)
Doctor- (awestruck) WHOAAAAAA.
Me- I don't want my eye to explode, because then the world will hate me.
Doctor- (recovering composure) Sorry? OK. Right, um... So. FIRST OF ALL, you should have BLAHBLAH called the out-of-hours GP service BLAHBLAH who would have told you to come here, instead of BLAHBLAH. Money, BLAHBLAH. Anyway, your eye is BLAHBLAH pus, BLAHBLAH pus-pus-pus, BLAHBLAH. INFECTION, BLAHBLAH, pus-pus-pus-pus. I'm going to prescribe you some penicillin, are you on the contraceptive pill?
Me- Nooooooooooope.
Doctor- Because if you a-
Me- I'm not, though.
Doctor- But if-
Me- My last name sounds like CONDOM. Like, as in... A CONDOM.
(Momma Ginge starts fidgeting and nudging me)
Me- Shhhhh!
Doctor- Is there a problem?
(Momma Ginge mutters about medication reacting with others)
Me- Oh! I'm on Seroquel.
Doctor- What're you taking that for?
Me- I'm crazy.
Doctor- Oh, it won't react, it'll be fine.
(Doctor stares at me, obviously terrified and I try to wink which must have ended up as a grimace, because of Quasimodo eye. He looks more scared)
(Momma Ginge starts fidgeting and nudging again)
Me- Shhhhh!
Doctor- Is there a problem?
Momma Ginge- He wants you to take an ORAL antibiotic!
Me- Oh, i get it! Hahahahahaha, ORAL. HAHAHAHAHAHA. What? Oh, oh! No, RIGHT! Oh, doctor, she's stressing 'cause I'm Bulimic and she thinks I'll throw it up.
Doctor- How do you take the Seroquel?

Anyway, then we left and I got this cool-arse eye drop gel shit, that I love and is magic (Quasi is shrinking, I'll miss him. He's a best friend) but that I can't really use because I wear contacts and ANTIBIOTICS. I love antibiotics. Ear infections thrill me, because I loves da pillz.

PS. Ignore my last post. After a week of detox and panic attacks, I have decided I really have NO desire to go back to an inpatient setting. I think I may be on my own, kids. But I'll beat this shit. I'm getting better, I'm getting better, I'm going to BE better.

Saturday, 17 April 2010


I have an urge to buy a big bag of lemons and maybe a few mangoes and perhaps even some pineapple. Then I will blitze (with an 'e' on the end, because otherwise I will be saying I will LIGHTNING WAR my fruit. I truly deserved that A-Level in History) and liquidise and drink that and have nothing else pass my lips. Ever. Well, until I've lost 10kg, anyway. If I had some more money, I'd have an urge to buy illegal diet pills, online. If I had... well, I suppose as soon as you descend into 'if's you've surpassed, um, something- I've forgotten where I was going with this. Pretend I've said summat deep, please.

I'm annoyed, tonight. I'm annoyed with myself for being ill. Does that make sense? I'm bingeing at the moment, but it's pathetically half arsed and I'm barely being sick at all. I'm telling myself that it's ok, I'll fast for a couple of days. But what good would that do? It would be a few more days of totally giving into the disorder. Some days I fight, but every week I fight fewer days than the week before- I think just because it's so discouraging. I can't fight because when I fight, and inevitably fail, it's much harder to get out of bed than if I hadn't tried to fight. But if I don't, I'll never, ever get anywhere. It's so confusing and I can't win. I think I need to go back into an inpatient programme, but the last one didn't get me anywhere at all- I got no help, I just got fed 6 times a day. I had a few laughs, but basically... I gained a bit of weight and got discharged early because they couldn't handle my panic attacks; my sense of humour; and my habit of being inappropriate with my bread (oh yessss, hahahahaha). I'd have to find another treatment centre, YCED wouldn't take me back- they won't even offer me out patient support- and I wouldn't want to go even if they would, but you know how the NHS is- I wouldn't actually have any choice in anything, if I could even get funding to go elsewhere. I think I've had more than my fair share of time on waiting lists and being fucked over by the bastards at the top.

I don't think I WANT to go IP again, but I'd do anything not to be condemned to the disorder. And does anyone ever want to go into hospital? It would be worth it, to get on the way to getting better. Oh God, I don't know. And I need to decide soon, because I have 5 months before university and I'd want to be in and out by then, so... But again, I could make the decision and then have waiting lists or funding problems getting in the way of it- making decisions scare me because then I'm open for disappointment. If not going into hospital is disappointng. What a straaaaange world I've found myself in.

I just want someone to tell me what to do.

In the mean time... LEMONS.

Saturday, 10 April 2010

Be quiet, like a terrorist.

This time of day feels like my time of day. It's mine, it's mine, it's mine- I'm the only person who has discovered it and it's magical. Stop it, don't laugh at me. Like I kept telling Smelliott last night, 'be quiet, like a terrorist' (I don't get what it's meant to mean, either. I thought it was really clever and logical at the time, though). I'm mad anyway, you should be nice to me. I'm also pretty drunk, I think. I must be- my best friend came back from New Zealand (why was she there? She was shagging sheep, duh) and so, of course, we had a vodka night and my Dog, can we do vodka nights. I tell you MOST SOLEMNLY, strawberry and cream vodka liquor is now my favourite thing in the world, even after... God, what else do I like? Bloody hell, what DO I like? Oh, snails. Smelliott is asleep in my bed, where we passed out at about midnight, after deciding to get dressed up to go to town and then deciding we couldn't be arsed, so going to the petrol station for ice cream and M&Ms and cereal. No matter who is here, every drunken night at my house ends with a trip to the petrol station, to visit the Asian men and their microwave of lurve. Mmm, classy.

I have all these BURNING DESIRES (hahaha, shut up), which I know are, in part, because I haven't taken my meds and because my meds aren't really strong enough anyway. I am horrifically irresponisible with medication. From being about 13, I was on Beta-Blockers (I shake, pretty much permanently, and in those days everyone thought it was a not-all-that-important heart thing, rather than just, like, anxiety) but I never took them. That's a lie, if I was going to meet people for the first time, or if my anxiety was bad or if I was BORED I used to take a triple dose, because they calmed me, hahahaha. To be honest, I'm not sure whether they actually did, or whether I was just convinced that they did, and so they did.

Taking meds for boredom's sake is a bit of a running thing with me. Last year, when I first got prescribed Seroquel, I took 400mg (which is about enough to sedate a horse. A big horse. No, an entire stable, in fact) before one of my A-Level Philosophy papers, because I'd decided to fail it and everybody was cramming and I was bored. I was about to blame my failure of that exam (0/120, get in) on the pill, but I've already told you I'd decided to fail, hell's bells. I'm also choosing to ignore the point that i was bloody shit at philosophy, because I am about as deep as Busted lyrics ('He took me to the future in the flux thing and I saw everything- boybands and another one and another one ... and another one! Triple breasted women swim around town... totally naked!'). Anyway, I didn't want to fall asleep in the exam, so to keep my mind going, I wrote a long story that had the ending 'and then the giraffes came and they ate the thighs on the fairies and the pixies and thee ate the elephants and they took over the world.' Something like that, anyway. Pfft, meds. If you want to get all psycho-analytical about my irresponsibility, it's a bit of a control thing. A CONTROL THING. Anything can be excused as that, as soon as you have an eatin disorder in your medical notes. But who really wants to get all psycho-analytical? It's not even half 5 in the morning.

I do really need to take them, nobody should be this buzzin' at this time of day. But if I do now, I'll sleep until mid-afternoon. I also really want to take laxatives. I went to Morrisons (Mozzas, Mozzas. I hate that I just called it Morrisons) yesterday and bought a litre of vodka, a litre of the strawberry shit I talked about before, a litre of evil blue alcopop, 3 cartons of Disney Princess blackcurrent squash (you know when you see something and you have an overwhelming desire to have it? I had to have those. I'm normally a lemon squash girl) and a pack of lax. I like to think people's shopping baskets reveal deep things about them, and mine clearly showed that I am a fine and upstanding member of the community. Meds? Lax? Lax? Meds? Obviously both would be, um... bad. Just bad. The other issue here, is that my will to binge right now is probably strong enough to fight da pillz anyway, so it would all be an UTTER WASTE. I woke up so many times the other night, because I'd been fasting for a couple of days and the will to binge (maybe I am a philosopher, I'm getting all Nietzschean. Shut up, I know I'm not. What have I told you about humouring me?) was stronger than ANTI-PSYCHOTICS. Bloody hell, fukmalyf. I NEED FOOD.

Maybe I should just go back to laying in bed next to Smelliott and making big plans for big adventures. Shhh- be quiet, like a terrorist.

Tuesday, 6 April 2010

The worst type of cancer.

The only days I feel like I can breathe are when I am plotting something that's, oh, I don't know the word. I was going to say 'self destructive' but that conjures up images of empty pill blisters and ambulances and that's not what I mean. It also sounds so clinical, you know? There are so many terms that I can't stand because they just sound too clinical and they make me want to scream, or, or dance naked and start fires and shout obscenities really loud or else do something HUMAN and... show them.

Mental illness is funny, because it's often treated in the same way as physical illness- there is a problem, it needs a solution. And then there are probably some crossed wires and too many people and a lack of communication and some pointless terminology, to prove that we are the experts and you are just a lay-person, along the way. Which is all well and good but sometimes it's too much there're too many things going on and it's too quick and too loud and fighting too much with the intensity in your head, and.... it just has to stop. But most of the time, nothing happens and you're forgotten. It's how I imagine terminal illness is; people, experts, can't be bothered. Why invest time and money (everything is always about money. Always) in somebody when they are going to die, and soon, regardless? They give you pills, pills to sedate you, pills to slow things down, pills to make you 'comfortable', but then they stop them. There are reasons, they can blame the possibility of addiction, whatever. But really, it just means they're no longer that bothered about your comfort, because that's the time when you should be dead. It's like the money you got from the sale of your house 20 years ago has dried up, and you can't afford the nursing home. You lived longer that they expected, almost longer than they hoped.

As bad as the idea of a physical terminal illness is, there's an added complication within the title of mental illness. The fact that you are a human, and that THAT is what the problem is- it's a problem with what makes you a person, as opposed to a problem with your shell- it's a whole other type of cancer, it doesn't grow in easily defined tumours- is so easily lost. You're not a person, you're a block of meat. Almost forgivable with a physical problem, because there is a logic. But anyway, I am being vague- mental illness is so broad a term. Oddly (I think of it as odd, anyway, Clear reason seems so tempting to try to arrange and 'fix'), having a cause (flawed logic needs reasoning) for a behaviour makes them less likely to invest, to fix- because cause and effect is a longer process to undo. If they can blame it just on the chemicals in your brain, or your blood or wherever those chemical inbalances are meant to be- they never explain, you are just, remember, a lay-person. But anyway, if they can just blame the chemicals- excellent. Shove a few more chemicals down your throat, sedate the voices- EXCELLENT. But if there's something more with it, if there's also some sort of problem with your thought processes? That's the worst type of cancer.

But this was about the idea of self destruction. I don't want to destruct, not totally. I'm waiting for my pivotal moment, the moment that people with eating disorders always have in films- where they start sobbing, 'I don't want to die!' and then magically get better. I think that only happens when you've not long been in the game. I think when the realisation that people die doing this dawns on you less directly, you miss that moment. You just always know that you don't want to die, because the possibility is always there. Not including the times, where... well, you know those times. Oh, I don't know. This is such a choppy blog, I'm sorry.

I just need to breathe. I'm ok, I'm not feeling especially depressed and I'm not going to do anything dramatic. I just need to breathe.

Does any of this make sense? Does any of this shit ever makes sense?

Friday, 2 April 2010

I am the best cook, ever.

No wait, I am not a cook. Calling me a cook is like calling Miley Cyrus an artist. No, no, I am a KILLER CHEF and Miley Cyrus is an artiste. I think (ok, ok- I KNOW) that it's maybe disputable; how amazingly amazing my cooking abilities are, I mean. There has to be a few quirks to your personality for you to fully appreciate my skills, I'll grant you that. I mean, for one... you have to really love toast. It probably helps as well for you to have been in eating disorder treatment at one point in your life, or to have had especially controlling parents- you have to have an urge to fight pre-conceived notions of what combinations are APPROPRIATE (bread, appropriate- you're starting to get where this is going, yes?). You have to love sugar. And cheese. You have to have nothing against bin raiding (I think that's a bit of a Bulimic thing, but go with it. The best pizza, for example, is the takeaway that you drunkenly bought two days ago, and then threw away when you sobered up, because suddenly you were afraid of it, only for you to dig out and consume desperately. Actually, you know, that's the worst pizza. But we're not being fukmalyf today, ok? It's the most depressing, true, but probably the most satisfying. NOM). Anyway, what else? You have to have a really short attention span, because the best recipes come from sticking together what'll cook quickest and also from being too impatient to make it to the shop to buy appropriate (hahaha) ingredients.

Well, a'ight- that last bit doesn't always work, hahaha. I wanted to make a cake one day, ohh... it must have been early 2008. Problem was, it was winter, it was dark and we didn't have any flour. Normally, when I wanted to bake (I was going through a right baking phase at that point, because I wasn't long out of Anorexia and scared that if I bought cake people would know, dundundun, that I ate), I sort of mixed anything kind of dry- flour, cornflour, Ready Brek, icing sugar. Owt, really. But we had nothing, absolutely nada, and so I thought I better get creative. Really, there wasn't a lot of thinking, I was a little too nut-so by that point and so my hunter/gatherer thing really got going and I realised that BREAD HAS FLOUR IN IT.

Anyway, long story short (well, shorter) I ended up with bread, custard (we didn't have any eggs and I'm scared of milk), Splenda (sugar=calories), butter, grated apple (the mix ended up being too wet and I thought apple might thicken it) and MY BLOOD (I grated the apple. And my finger) in the smoothie maker. By this point, I was starting to have my doubts, but I blitzed and baked and SURPRISINGLY... it was a little disgusting. Not so cake-y. The whole experience got worse, though, because I was bleeding like a bugger (not even my blood likes my body) and I was concerned about how I'd make myself sick with a bleeding finger. So I wrapped a bit of string around my finger, which actually has a very cool effect when you're heavily bleeding. It stops the bleeding, like, right away but it also makes your finger swell to about a million times it's actual size. Alien finger, bloody mint.

I think people regretted, in the week or so after, asking what I'd done to my finger.

But oh no, don't judge my talents on that! You shouldn't use that last story against my cooking skills! You shouldn't use the finger bit, anyway. I just wanted to illustrate how even GENIUS LOGIC (I am a cookery genius, therefore I have genius logic. Shhhh)can go awry. I'm going to finish with my classic recipe, the one that'll one day launch the sale of a batrillion-jillion cookery books, to redeem myself.

Bread- Lots and lots and lots, because it's a damn good recipe and you should want a lot. It has to be crappy white bread, though. Own-brand, ceiling tile type.
Sugar- Enough to cover one side of each slice of your crappy bread. Not too much, the more you have the longer it takes. Like... a tablespoon per slice. ish.

Put the bread under the grill.
Oh wait, am I supposed to tell you to turn on the grill? Do that before you put the bread under.
Grill until, like, it's grilled.
Turn it over (take it out from under the grill, or you'll get burnt) and put the sugar on. IT'S VERY IMPORTANT that you use your finger to spread the sugar, and that it's pretty evenly spread.
Whack the bread back under (sugar side up, moron) until the sugar is golden and caramel, and if you touch it you get 3rd degree burns (you have to suffer for art).
Then eat it.
Then call the dentist.

Most recipes to come ;)