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

Headache.

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

Skint.

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.