Saturday, 29 May 2010

In hospital.

Of this whole year (including June, since I'll be in at least a few more days), April is the only month I haven't done at least some time in a psychiatric unit. Tragic.

Saturday, 22 May 2010

Doped up on Vitamin D.

I've absorbed so much sunshine today, that now I AM sunshine. It probably says something terrible about me, how quickly I can change. Does it denote shallowness? Is shallowness really all that terrible? I've always suspected that I'm really and completely shallow- my life is ruled by the size of my thighs, after all. Today is a beautiful day and I'm mellow. I feel really quite lovely, I'm not a depressed kind of mellow. I'm a... I don't know what. I'm not especially relaxed, because when I'm relaxed I panic- calmness isn't a desirable feeling for me because not long after, there is always the storm.

But I am good, now. I am lovely.

I'm restless though, in that I can see the next few hours are spread before me and I have nothing to do. Nothing I want to read or watch or listen to. Nothing. And there's an unique kind of panic that's at the back of my mind when I have a totally empty block of time. If I even had something I could watch on the TV, I'd be fine. But there's nothing, nothing, nothing. I sunbathed today, although I'm not sure that's quite the term for it- I sprawled, covered in SPF 50 (nuclear fall out proof) lotion and read some. Drank a lot of Pepsi Max. And that's what made restless- a few hours in the same place. The sun. Perhaps I'm just a little bit too relaxed and it's an alien feeling.

And maybe, I think, I'm more connected today than I have been for a while, and in being connected I've realised how empty I have made my life. A brief window into sanity? Oh dear. There's always the possibilty, of course, that I'm reading too deeply into- what? A feeling of wellbeing? Normality? Stop analysing it, just feel it.

But anyway, now I'm sitting here, just thinking about how hungry I am. How hungry I'm not. How I could binge, to fill time, if not for the fact that the thought of putting lotion on my freshly showered skin is horrific (as is the thought of going out without lotion) and I don't have any binge food really available now. Besides which, I don't really NEED to binge (melloooooow) and I'd rather not, as I could do with losing a few kilo. I don't really know how else to fill time, though. Over the years, I've lost the ability to entertain myself without doing something destructive. I have the news on and I've just eaten some soup (it's really very hot, but I have to eat soup on Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays) and it's all very, very dull.

But better mellow and restless and dull and connected than... well, how I have been lately. Ohhh, sunshine. What a beyooooootiful day.

Friday, 21 May 2010

Yesterday.

I woke up this morning surrounded by scraps of paper with scrawled notes written on them. Ink on my hands, arms, chest, face. And oh, reading the notes- trying to decifer the mind that had written them and hoping that the words were a printing error commited by a hand. I'm not one person. I'm a person who can begin notes; suicide notes or maybe the beginnings of great novels- the difference is what comes after the note, the action or inaction. It's intent and desire and movement. I'm a person who is terrified of finishing anything and being backed into a corner by the words- being forced into action by the logic of a twisted mind, an alien mind that feels at war with every other organ and is not the same mind as the one that inhabited the same space, a time before. I fantasise about nothing, literally nothing, a Rebecca Condron-less world. I'm a person who, in the next breath, decides on baby names and plans trips and adventures and some sort of future.

Truth be told though, I've never believed that I'd live a long life.

Saying that, I'm never quite sure of the truth. Not anymore. I'm not trying to be deep- this isn't a Descartes thing or anything vaguely philosophical. I really do trip over my words and my stories and I lose sight completely of what the truth is, and what's a story and that I told myself and I now believe. And as I'm telling a story to somebody else, sometimes I get part way through and siddenly realise there's not a bit of truth to it- the entire story is a LIE, that for a few minutes I genuinely believed. Sometimes I get to the end and wonder if it was a lie. I don't know how to describe the feeling. It's like, when you go to tell- no, I don't suppose most people do that. Hang on, let me think. No, I don't know.

I'm ok right now. Yesterday was strange, before I began writing and then took a triple dose of Seroquel (I wanted a long and dreamless sleep, because I needed to clear my mind), I pulled off my toe nails. Well, I only had two nails left that were of a length that could be torn off (when I'm stressed, I make a horror show of my feet), but I pulled those two off. I took one of them, the big toe on my left foot, a little further than I meant to and ripped off all the cuticle, absolutely everything- half my toe is just a weeping sore. I was scared, so scared. It's a strange feeling, knowing that you're not in control. I'm in control right now and for all these ramblings, I'm safe. I'm not backed into a corner and I never finished anything I wrote yesterday- disconnected, disturbing scraps of great novels (they will never be suicide notes, so what are they?) are all over my floor.

But they're not in my head. When the thoughts on the papers is alien, I'm safe. When the notes on the scraps are unfinished, I'm frozen in inaction. But I'm tired of trying to second-guess my own next mood and move.

Saturday, 15 May 2010

Numbers.

It's the numbers right now, going around and around my head, that are bothering me. It's not calories or weight or anything like that, it's just.... numbers. Everything, every object and every action and feeling and thought, has a value and a number and although I know that I'm allocating the values but I don't understand them. I don't know what's happening. I don't know what the numbers mean and I don't understand the rules. That's not true, in the moment that the rules become law I understand the logic. But then the reasoning evades me and I'm left with numbers. I'm counting, but it's not real counting. I'm chanting, repeating, and it's like being in school- having a chain of figures and working out the link between them. Except there is no link. It's a type of mathematics I don't understand. I always have problems with patterns, I get lost in patterns.

Do you understand me?

I'm sorry, I sound crazy. I'm not, I'm not. I'm just confused. I just need to keep counting, keeping hold of the values and my pattern for the day. That's it, that's all. I'm so scared of dropping the ball and losing my numbers, because then what? I know the numbers are keeping me connected and keeping me together, but they're also keeping me separate and the strings of-

I don't even understand me.

Sunday, 9 May 2010

Little girl, you ain't going nowhere...

Before the guilt is the high. You can do less and you can do more. You're on fire, you are buzzing, you are a success. You can do this better than anything you have ever attempted, and you can do this better than anybody who has ever gone before you. You're not stupid enough to take it too far, that's not what you're about- you're in control and you could get out, you really could. But why would you want to? You are electric. People get sacrificed, but that's their fault for not being strong enough to keep up. Feelings get sacrificed, but hunger is more bareable than fear or pain. Experiences get sacrificed, but you're experiencing something far greater- your very own ascension, a shedding of humanity.

But then life... you look around and life has been sacrificed- you're nothing and you realise that somewhere along the way, that became the aim. And suddenly it's not worth it, it's too much. You have a hunger for nothingness and a thirst for destruction and this was never supposed to happen. You can't squash these cravings as you did your physical hunger. You need out, you need to run away from this.

And then comes the guilt.

You're already used to the guilt of eating, of not eating, of purging, of not purging. You've become used to the guilt of stealing to fuel the addiction- food, pills, money. Eventually you even get used to the guilt of what it's doing to your family and your friends, because you learn to pass the blame. It's the illness- it's not your fault you're this way or that you did that thing, it's the disease. It's the fault of everyone around you- they should love you less, they should love you more. They should stop you, they should leave you alone. They don't understand. They're trying too hard or not hard enough to understand. And then further... You have this illness and that must be the fault of the media, with it's unrealistic depictions of perfection. Of those girls you once met online, who told you to Stay Strong and Think Thin. Of your genes. Of the child in the playground who called you fat when you were 6. Of God, for giving you this life. Of your parents, for bringing you into this world.

But you get past that. Then it suddenly hits you, and the guilt is unavoidable. You are stuck, you really are. And why are you stuck? Whose fault is it? It's yours. YOU were the one, all that time ago, who decided not to eat. It wasn't always an addiction, you put time into nurturing the beast. You weren't always stuck and alone, you bit off the hand that may have saved you. And that's what you can't resolve. Ironically, the guilt then becomes the thing that keeps you in the game. The voice of guilt becomes so loud that you can't hear your body crying for nourishment, you can't hear people around you crying for you to nourish it. It's impossible to hear the answers, over the sound of your own guilt. And you take that to mean you're so self-centred, you're vain, you're scum. And that exacerbates the situation further.

Little girl, you ain't going nowhere until you can forgive yourself

Monday, 3 May 2010

Throwing up anxiety.

What a relief, I am no longer 'fine'.

I feel incredibly and amazingly shit. And this blog is taking an incredibly and amazingly long time to write, because as always when I feel like shit, it's hard to make a mark, a physical mark on the internet. Today, nothing on my blog that I have ever written and no impression you have of me is accurate. I want to disappear, and I want to disappear perfectly- no trace, no written account and not even the vaguest of memory of anything I am or I have done left. I want to be invisible; I'm paranoid, I don't want you to know who or what I am. My solidity is irritating me and I am tired of being human. I'm not anxious today, I've thrown up every trace of anxiety that I woke up with this morning and although in one sense that's good, in another it's just left me drained. I'm am stone-cold but not uncaring- I care enough to wish I could vanish. Maybe that's hopeful. I hurt, although more physically than emotionally. And I'm horrified at the monster that I have become. Maybe that I've always been. In short, I'm a mess. I don't know how many times today I've binged, how many times I've been sick. 12 times? 14? When it gets over 10, exact numbers don't really matter, it almost surpasses the term 'disordered'. All I can say is that I know it's been disastrous and that I am horrified by myself- how my mind can turn on my body and how total the war between the two is.

There's so much I want to say, I feel like I have so much that I need to say but the longer I sit here writing odd sentences and then deleting them, the worse I feel. I can't leave a blog like this, it reads horribly and I've not actually really said anything. An awful piece of writing; even by my own blog-standards, which admittedly aren't very high. I suppose I'll have to leave it at some point, the laxative gremlins are growling. What a beautiful life this is.

Saturday, 1 May 2010

Musical stairs.

There's an underground station in... Taiwan(?- somewhere that's like China, but isn't China, anyway) that's trying to get people using stairs instead of escalators (I love the word escalator. It sounds all space-agey) by making the stairs musical. Sort of like, if you imagine the giant floor piano that films always show, the one in FAO Schwarz, but as STAIRS. Magic. The BBC just did a human interest news jobby thing about the Taiwan (let's just call it Taiwan) stairs and I have decided that I want musical stairs more than anything in THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD. When I was Anorexic, I was a stair climber. I'd get home, eat an apple and then run up and down the stairs 100 times. I have NO desire to go back to that and so I'd LIKE to tell you that I'd like musical stairs to prevent me from doing. Sort of like a cat with a bell collar, so it doesn't kill birds- I wouldn't want to draw attention to what I was doing and so if the stairs were musical I wouldn't compulsively ascend and descend. That would, quite honestly, be utter bullshit. Exercise? Pfft! But maybe I can use that and get musical stairs on the NHS? I'll write to all the political parties and get their opinions. The party that will give me the stairs will get my vote. I'll wait until they're installed, before I tell Momma Ginge.

That story has just got 'London Underground' in my head ('Don't tell me to mind the gap, I WANT MY FUCKIN' MONEY BACK. London Underground, London Undergound. They're all lazy fuckin' useless cunts...') but that's ok, it makes me think of our Lily and that makes me happy.

There's another excellent story of the news today- baseball was ACTUALLY invented in southern England. Um, yeah, duh, but we call it rounders and it's a kid's game and we don't piss around with all the armour, because the English are well 'ard. It's like American football V Rugby. We're hard and they're pretty.

I'm feeling pretty good today, and it kind of bothers me. I think what it is is, I feel like a fraud. I saw my psychiatrist (well, actually I didn't. I saw A psychiatrist, not my usual one) on Monday and he wanted me on an anti-depressant, as well as my Seroquel, because I'm a bit of a mess- I've rarely got out of bed recently because I am too anxious. I refused (I actually hate taking meds. Apart from antibiotics, of course. Hahaha), but I could see, logically, why it might be a good idea. My GP extended my sick note indefinitely yesterday, because 'it's obvious it's going to be a while yet, before you're ready to work, and this will be one less worry for you'. But I feel... fine, right now. Logically, it's been probably less than 24 hours since I started feeling 'fine' and it seems ridiculous to be obsessing about it, but it's hard to know what to do with it. It's also difficult knowing that the REASON I feel 'fine' is probably just that I weigh less than I have done in maybe about 3 months. Am I that shallow?

I need to stop obsessing, I am far too obsessive. If I listed even half of my obsessions, you would be utterly lost. Like... I am going to get dressed and go buy a newspaper and some Coke Zero now, but I need to time it- to work out how long it will take me to get ready, what time I'll leave, how long I will be out. If I'm ready a minute before I told myself I'd leave at, I'll stand waiting at the door. I need times I need to know what's going to happen, I need... Shh, I need my brain to be quiet like a terrorist.