Friday, 25 June 2010

Attention seeker.

It's weird that people use the term 'attention seeker' as an insult. It's just as weird that some people brag about being one too, now I think about it. All those t-shirts that Tammy always had in, proclaiming that the wearer to be one. I was never much of a Tammy fan, I never liked slogan t-shirts or the Avril Lavigne look, but that's neither here nor there. Everything living is an attention seeker, it's how organisms survive. What do you think the meaning of life is? The meaning of life is to be noticed, everything is trying to be noticed- everything NEEDS to be noticed in order to procreate. In order to live long enough to procreate. Survival of the fittest is actually survival of the most noticed.

But that's not really what this blog is about. As ever, this blog is about ME. More specifically, as ever, it's about my mental health. Somebody sent me a bit of Formspring hatin' about me being an attention seeker and I thought it was quite entertaining. Actually, if I remember correctly, the h8r (hahaha) said something like 'waaaah, waaaah, mental health should be a private issue. Blah, blah, if I wasn't so ENLIGHTENED I'd call you an attention seeker.' As hate goes, it was very funny because of how passive it was and how the writer obviously had no idea of what enlightened means (what are you enlightened about? Obviously not why I'm so open, or you wouldn't whinge). I'm not going to get into how mental health shouldn't have to BE a private issue (cancer patients don't swear that they're naturally bald. People with chicken pox don't have to shovel on the cover-up) as being ill isn't a crime, it's nothing to be ashamed or proud of. It just IS. I'm not homing in on that because I'm not hatin' on that. And besides, I wrote about that on my Formspring (formspring.me/rebeccaxylo).

Instead, this is about the attention seeker bit.

I am incredibly open, I realise that. I'm more open than anybody I know and because people aren't used to people like me, I make them very uncomfortable. That's because I know the meaning of life, you see. I know it's to be noticed, I'm just more evolved than you are. It's a pity I've probably killed my ovaries or I'd be procreating like shittery. Little attention seeking babies; left, right and centre. There's nothing wrong with being open, it's just a matter of survival.

If I had been open about certain things a long time ago, I would have avoided so many terrible things. I'm not sure whether that's irony or the reason I'm so open about what I'm going through now. So please, before you judge me for being this way, or before you bitch about me being an attention seeker- listen to the full story. Listen to MY story- don't presume to know shit about me, just because you know my diagnoses. You have no idea what I have been through. I'm not trying to brag and I am certainly no wannabe, I do not want to be ill. But I am and lying and hiding about that isn't going to change it. So why should I? Back off.

Thursday, 24 June 2010

The 4am walk of shame.

Yesterday was delicious, although I think there should be a rule where if you haven't slept, it's still the same day. And so today was delicious. Although I think I slept maybe about 2 hours, but it's hard to tell- I might just have drunkenly passed out for 2 hours and does that count as sleep? Does it matter? Probably not, shhh. I was not getting drunk yesterday, I was not drinking at all. Well, maybe I was going to have one. Or two. And I didn't go that far off; according to my food diary (OH YES), I had 5 vodka-diet-cokes (I'm convinced the bastards gave me full fat coke for at least one of them, though. I usually demand to see them press the DIET button but I'm trying to pretend I'm not a freak. Or I was doing yesterday, anyway). And then a fair amount of a bottle of vodka. And a glass or so of Corkies. So that's only really... 7 drinks. Almost what I said I'd have, because 7 is basically 4 because 4 is more than half of 7, see. And in the grand scheme of things, what is 2 drinks, between friends?

For one so sane, Smelliott is a terrible influence over me. If she hadn't have been born, we would not have been celebrating. And had we not been celebrating that we would not have ignored by a MILLION MEN in a bar, who were there for the England match. And then I would not have gotten so drunk. Not that I'm complaining, it was a very, very delicious day after all. I even quite liked being ignored, I'm not at all used to it and so it was INTERESTING. Seriously. And it gave us an opportunity to get into the match, actually into it (we shouted the words 'fucking referee! What the fuck, you fucking cunt!' and so therefore are now professional pundits) and to experience GREAT EMOTIONS and a testosterone supernova.

It's all gets to be a bit of a blur after the match. I remember Lidl and Sainsbury's and going to Central Park to play on the swings. But you'll NEVER GUESS what those bastards in Pitwood House have done! Go on, GUESS. There are no swings in Central Park! And so I littered and then weed in a bush- take that, council! Then we were all in Gay Rob's (I know Gay isn't necessarily a title and it's not like I need to differentiate between any other Robs, but I can't think of him without it. It would be like just calling Momma Ginge, Ginge) and he was playing us some of his songs (I detest how talented he is) and then I was throwing up in McDonald's and, forgive me for saying it, really quite enjoying the density and that of my vom' and thinking that I should eat McDonald's more often. And it was about midnight.

See. Very, very delicious. It would have been very, very, VERY delicious if not for those Scunthorpe bureaucrats but I'M NOT BITTER.

The thing is though, staying at Gay Rob's was all very impromptu and I didn't have any meds, which is really unlike me. I'm actually quite organised, in my bag at the moment (for example) I have my sunglasses, purse, phone, keys, passport (you never know), food diary, a purple felt tip (I only write in felt tips), a red felt tip (in case the purple runs out), a Christmas card, sun lotion, hair grips, a comb, dry shampoo, a purple tampon, a yellow tampon, a green tampon, a johnny, Aqua Ban, Pro-Plus, a medicine cup (I stole 23 when I was in hospital. I crippled the NHS), pressed powder and some bits of rubbish. EVERY EVENTUALITY, apart from one where I might not go home for a night. I didn't even have any Valium on me which is very, VERY unlike me. So when my alcohol coma wore off at about 3 this morning, my mind was going a million miles an hour and it was all very loud and anxiety-licious. So I laid there in bed with Smelliott and Gay Rob, trying to be logical and after about an hour thought FUKDIS.

So I left. I didn't quite think through the walk home, but I stumbled out at 4 this morning, with tousled hair, a creased dress and smeared make-up. The WALK OF SHAME. We've all done it, left a one night stand and walked out in yesterdays clothes. Whilst everybody watches and gives you wry nods. But at 4am? What a waste of a good look- too few people about. I wanted to sit down with the people I did see though, and hold their hands and tell them that I'd actually spent the last few hours in bed with a gay man and a straight lady. But maybe that would have made the walk even more shameful. Still, at least I got a work out, I stumbled out of Gay Rob's at 4 and into the House of Ginge at half 5. And it got my vodka poo going. Mmm! :)

And so, you know, today is very delicious, too.

Monday, 21 June 2010

Happy weight.

As eating disordered people go, I have odd body image. What I mean is, my body image really isn't all that terrible. My rules on weight have changed and evolved and probably kind of matured and with that so have my views on my body. I mean, I've always had BAD body image (in comparison to the Great British public, I mean. I swear I'm not contradicting myself; I sometimes go forever without showering because being stuck with my body is too much and I can't wear anything remotely form fitting), but it is possible for me to be relatively comfortable within my skin. I just have to be at my happy weight, which is healthy and is set in stone. I don't aspire to thinness, I don't aspire to be underweight. My happy weight is where I know logically my body looks best and so where my self esteem is at it's highest.

2 and a half years ago, my BMI was about 14, which is unnatural for ANYBODY but I'm really more of a Marilyn Monroe than a Kate Moss. I'm quite small and my body is made of curve, I am pure curve, I am not long or lean in any way- no matter what my size. I had no idea what I wanted to weigh, I'd smashed every 'goal weight' I'd ever had. My body was hideous and I knew that. The thing with aspiring to be at a low weight is that you are commiting to either dying the death of an Ethiopian or, which is more likely to happen, to having to go through the trauma of gaining weight back. You can't win, eventually you will do one or the other and as much as you don't care in the moment, well... you will. You will care. And I did eventually and I made it, I gained weight and in doing so, in going up and down down down and up up up, I've learnt so much about my body.

When I got out of hospital, 5 days ago, I was slightly below my happy weight and I was... optimistic. I was ready to eat and to eat properly and feeling comfortable within my skin, I expected, would make all that the more easy. The thing with me, I am learning, is that I am not comfortable being comfortable. It's not that the weight is an unrealistic one for me and it's not that I struggle to maintain a weight- at the beginning of the year, I was maintaining at about 4kg above my happy weight and for a dark, dark while a few months ago, I was maintaining at about 10kg above. I maintained 3kg below last year, too scared to try and get up to where I'd be happy, should I not be able to stop gaining. And that's what it is- I never, ever maintain where I could be happy. I can't let myself feel ok about my body, that's not allowed. I have eaten continuously since Wednesday and I'm in no rush to get on the scales, but I'd imagine I've probably gained about 4kg. And that's affecting everything, I am so anxious about having to go out tomorrow because I am so disgusted and embarrassed. But I'm more comfortable with this feeling than I am with being happy. I don't know what to do with being happy. And it's all very, very confusing.

Thursday, 17 June 2010

I almost died and all I got to show for it is a deformed nostril.

It's amazing how quickly things can spiral out of control. It started with the panic attacks, that's where it all started and what it all comes back to. I've been getting panic attacks for as long as I can remember, but they sort of evolved, when I was inpatient for my eating disorder, into flashbacks. Intense, insane. And so, so many. This year, they've been a constant- the only thing I'm half way reliable for. You can bet your life on the fact that I'll spend most of my waking hours in a quivering mess.

I got admitted to the nuthut (sorry, sorry. THE PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL) 3 weeks ago, because I, well, I wasn't in control; I couldn't guarantee my safety- I was basically mad as shit. And it was in there that I realised that the quickest way to stop those panic attacks/flashbacks, to stay in the present (although actually, to kind of remove yourself from time altogether) was to not take anything into my body. I don't know, the logic was there, but horrifically distorted- I'll admit that. I can't eat or drink in unfamiliar places (I've been inpatient in the nuthut before, but I didn't eat or drink then either, although it didn't become such a big issue) but that was such a small part of it. I wanted to be clean, totally clean. I wanted to be so ill that my body couldn't produce the anxiety. And that's ultimately what I got.

I got a few things. Everything was so fast or so slow, I was waiting always or being rushed to the general hospital- I got sped up and slowed down time. I came very, very close to getting sectioned (we're talking papers drawn up, me half conscious and my mum fighting so hard to prevent them and persuade me to accept treatment, before I died) and even closer to hypoglacaemic coma. An NG tube; which is a tube up your nostril and down to your stomach, into which they pour calories. A ripped nostril from the tube. So many IV saline and electrolyte and glucose bags.

3 weeks between the general and the psychiatric hospital.

And the thing is, my eating disorder overtook the original issue and it became a mission to force feed the Anorexia. Not really a lot was ever done for the panic attacks. And that is, after all, where it all started and what it all comes back to.

Saturday, 12 June 2010

And still, here I am- NG and hospital.

It's just gone 8, on a Saturday night and I'm dining in hospital. There's something about an NG tube, it feels like it SHOULD be rock bottom but honestly it isn't. I feel like so many things SHOULD have been rock bottom- overdoses and bleeds and psych admissions and hospital admissions and IVs and going for inpatient treatment... But they've been falls on the way up the stairs, not down.

I'm on my way away from this eating disorder, I'm so sure. I've maybe had an epiphany and you'll have to wait for it to fully develop, I think. I'm not sure of much, but it definitely feels more like an accident that got me here, literally and physically HERE, and in a way it was. But I'll save that story for when I'm out, which I'm hopinghopinghoping will be Tuesday. I need to live, I need to start living, and this is my... Leaping pad. I don't know what else to say, everything is very ridiculous right now- I have a length of tubing going up my nose and down to my stomach, constantly dripping in... Well, chemicals- it's nothing and everything and it means everything and nothing. Much like this blog. Everything is ridiculous, in Scunthorpe General Hospital.