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.