Saturday, 30 October 2010

The secret to perfection.

Willis says that her legs are too thin. Whilst this is obviously fucking stupid, it is lovely to have these glimpses into a world where something can be too thin. Why is this so fucking stupid? Because Willis has a perfect body. The pursuit of perfection is paradoxical. Perfection is not something you can work for; not physically, anyway. Perfection is what you obtain when you sit back and realise that, you know what? If you bloody want some cake then cake is what you should bloody well have. Let them eat cake? Let me eat cake. A perfect body which is one that is nourished, and nourished for the right reason- the right reason being that that is the right of your body. No more, no less. There is one simple reason why you should eat, and eat enough, and that's because you cannot live otherwise. YOU CANNOT LIVE. You can survive on very little, for a horribly inhumane amount of time, you can subsist. But you cannot live and you can never even realise what perfection is. The demons get louder the less nourished a body is and their volume and the fact that they are more real, more alive, than a malnourished shell, are what stops the realisation of what perfection really is. The demons shout for their survival. The body must shout louder for its.

Perfection isn't a size. Perfection isn't even a confidence, confidence is the secret to being attractive. Perfection is respect, nourishment and opportunity.

Thursday, 28 October 2010

Crying.

I cried this morning. I got out of bed, I used the toilet, I got on the scales and then I cried. I was so immediately swept up by the tears that I didn't even have time to get off the scales, a move that might just have made me feel a little better. Instead, I stood feet rooted to the plastic of the scales, eyes rooted to the solidity of the number, and fat... well, fat rooted just about everywhere. Through my tears, I got off the scales and got back on, and I did this 7 times- a time, a punishment, for each of the kilos I need to lose- each time having to see that bloated and deformed number. The number that now, 3 hours on, I can still see; burned on to my eyes, like the purple blobs you get after looking at the sun. A blob. That's about right.

I am horrified. I am horrified at my own powers for destruction, borne from so many tiny little incidents over the last week. A comment from somebody. A problem with my scales. A conversation with somebody I haven't spoken to for a while. Fear that somebody may be angry at me. Stupid comments about me, and not even to me, made on the internet. I am terrified of my own fragility, I need to be strong and I need to be my own inspiration. I've managed that to a degree- I used to get so disillusioned when I saw people around me struggle, that it would immediately have an impact on my own eating disorder. And so I realised that I needed to disconnect; you can care about somebody without correlating your entire mindset and health with theirs. I needed to stop drawing inspiration from the achievements of other people, because their limitations would then hit me so hard. But I still can't separate within myself people's comments and the level of effect I should let them have. I don't know if you know this, but I've actually been doing really well. Not perfectly- I haven't eaten enough and my weight has been falling, but it hasn't been falling dramatically. I HAVE BEEN FINE. A week ago, I'd have told you I was in recovery from Anorexia and Bulimia.

And now? I know a week means nothing, a week is a lapse and nothing else. But I need a ladder and that's what I can't find. I can't find, or rather, I don't KNOW, the means to get myself away from this lapse and that's what's so terrifying. I don't think my behaviours are suddenly going to be as bad as they were... I don't want to get in detail, because that's not fair to people reading this who also have eating disorders. It would also be entirely unnecessary to the point I'm trying to make.

But it's the feel and the deja vu- it's the sitting in lecture picking at bits of skin, because then you'll have a little less flesh. It's the leg shaking and the caffeine overdoses and the working out that each piece of chewing gum needs to be chewed for at least 9 minutes 16 seconds to ensure that you burn more calories than it has in it. It's knowing that you aren't even control of your thoughts, the very thing that even make you human. It's knowing that that lack of control is in danger of making you a shell again, a vessel of disease and little else- the shedding of the humanity that you worked so hard to achieve. Lapses are harder than the original descend into illness, it's the difference between walking into the unknown and being dragged back into a hell that you'd tunnelled out of, with a plastic spoon.

I think that if.. no. I don't know. Maybe the most important thing here is that I'm not willing for my eating disorder to rise up and take control of my life, as I've let it do in the past. That's right, LET it do. I will beat down anybody who claims eating disorders are a choice, because that's not fair. But fighting IS a choice and I will fight. I missed one class this week because the stress of all this is exhausting me, but I haven't missed any lectures. I missed a night out and I'm missing another tomorrow, but at the end of the day, I'm recovering from a serious illness- I can afford to miss things for that, as long as I don't use the time to indulge my eating disorder, in any way. I will not hide.

Sunday, 24 October 2010

Fat day!

I dreamt that I was in ASDA, in Scunthorpe, and saw a family friend. She told me I was look gaunt and that I needed to gain weight. It's both really depressing and really disturbing how happy this made me, in my dream. I thought I'd moved to a point where I didn't LIKE being told shit like that, but I suppose really... I don't know. It's made me want to never eat again. Pathetically, I want to be told that I'm too thin. It makes no sense, because I hate comments on my weight or body, they make me feel physically sick. Whether they're positive or negative in theory, all I can get from comments like that is that people are judging my body, they are noticing my weight, and when you're trying to recover from an eating disorder, when you're trying to convince yourself that weight isn't important, other people noticing it really fucks you up.

I feel so disgusting and huge and hideous that I have no idea how I'm going to manage lectures and classes this week. How the hell can I let myself be seen? I just want to stay in bed with Pepsi, BBCiPlayer and some F. Scott Fitz. I can't even get my reading done, because I'm too busy eating. God.

Monday, 18 October 2010

Just a thought.

The other night I was on the dance floor and I realised that I would not be young forever. One day I'd have to stay in or else be one those sad middle aged women, wishing she was 20-something and telling the world what she could have been, whilst dancingdancingdancing. To go from being so young and vital and alive, to looking in the mirror and realising that you can no longer wear what you like and say what you like- to having to dress in elegance and poise or else to be a second class citizen. We'll all be cougars and mole men or else boring fucks.

I've always thought it must be so depressing, when you stop saying that what you want to be and what you want to change and make and see and hear, and instead start saying what you'd wish you had done. I hope I always do things. Do I want to reach my goals and then risk having nothing to strive for? Yes, I think I do. Better to have reached the top than to be sitting at the bottom thinking what could have been.

I suppose before all of that starts, I need to start being young.

Sunday, 17 October 2010

Trust part deux, and watching your words.

There's is one word that is guaranteed to make me violent. People here don't believe me when I tell them exactly how UNviolent I am- I was a literal and total pacifist this time a year ago- because when I'm drunk I suddenly become this northern stereotype and start punching people. Thing is, at home I would never do owt like that and here it's all in jest, I am just a total twat when I'm drunk. And sober, really. Shhh.

I don't especially want to go into the story of what happened to me on Thursday night, because for you to understand it you really have to know certain things about me that I'm not actually so keen to write about in my blog. You thought I had no limits, right? Sorry to shatter your allusions, but truly I do, they're just further than most people's and this may be where the line is drawn. Basically, a lot of tiny events added up on the night to send me over the edge, events that would BOTHER anybody else and piss them off and maybe even ruin their night, but what would be forgotten by morning.

But for me, these events added up to leave me being collected from my mate's flat at 5am Friday morning, after having an ambulance and two police cars called out. Events that left me hand-cuffed to a hospital bed and with two policemen constantly with me so I couldn't escape. If you are ever in a hospital and you see a terrified looking girl in that situation, don't you dare judge her. Don't you dare. Even if she is drunk. Even if she is trying to escape and begging for her release- not everybody with the police is a criminal, some people are the opposite. Some people are ill. But that's not what I wanted to write about.

Even when you think you know somebody, you don't. I know everybody says that- don't think you know me- but it's honestly true. Think about me and how much you know about me. You know (or maybe you don't exactly, but no doubt you could work it out) the illnesses that clog up my medical notes. You may know all the stories about my past; I am NOT ashamed of my history and I am NOT going to hide it, the stories from my past go a way to explaining who I am now and sometimes I think people need to hear them. Maybe, maybe, you actually know how I feel about my body, how it's so much more complicated than me thinking I'm fat- how sometimes I'm afraid of how my body ISN'T hideous and my terror of it being attractive. You know who my best friends are and that I write. And so, what? You think that is all? You think stories, a few feelings and possibly the fact that your mate saw me drunk in the laundrette is who I am? You think that that diagnoses and a written mark on the internet make up a human being? Let me tell you, they don't.

I bet you didn't know that it's not milk, but being sectioned that is my biggest fear. I'm sure you can guess why, given what happened in June and everything. But I bet you didn't know that when faced with that, when a medical professional threatens me with that, I will get very, very violent as my mind tries to think of a way of getting out, so that I can kill myself before that happens. That there is not a single thing I wouldn't do to avoid that, because if they section me my prospects suddenly end and everything I have worked for will be a waste. And so, any medics out there... when you get called to a girl having a severe panic attack, don't threat her with section, just because she has a complicated background. Don't mention the S word. THERE IS NO NEED. Watch your words, you might as well call me fat, for the reaction you will get.

I'd say probably the worst part of the whole thing was being such a bloody disaster in front of a girl I have known less than a fortnight. This is EXACTLY what I was saying in my last post, I can trust people entirely to look after me, but I hadn't realised how much I resent having to. Not them, obviously- I have massive respect for Willis and I am so ashamed and embarrassed over the whole thing, because no nineteen year old should be forced to watch a girl she's known 10 days in that situation. It's heavy, it's very heavy. Me, I look at it like physical illness- if Willis had a hypo (if she was diabetic, obviously), I would look after her. But the type of thing that happened on Thursday is not pretty and it's not... Oh, I don't know. I'm babbling. I just feel like I should constantly be apologising and I hate being so dependant. I hate not being in control. I hate the feeling that people are already obliged to stand by me because I'm so bloody mental.

I also hate that there are already rumours going about about what happened on Thursday, but we'll save that for another entry.

Thursday, 14 October 2010

Trust.

I feel I have to watch what I write on here at the moment, I can't just write what comes to my head right now. It's because before, I could sound all dull and down and whatever, and people could know that there were all sorts of people babysitting me- my doctors, my family, my friends. I'm a little loathe to add that last one, because, well, honestly? I've been here 11 days and already some of the people I have met here are better friends than so many of the Scunthorpe lot. But I digress.

The thing is, it would be harder for me here to have some sort of... God, how do they put it? PSYCHOLOGICAL CRISIS, and keep it hidden here than it would have been at home. The last time I was hospitalised, I think people were genuinely shocked, at least to begin with. I mean, when the initial shock had worn off, I think everyone realised it had been coming since I'd been released from hospital the time before that, but still- when I found out I was being put back in and sent a mass text to Momma Ginge and Smelliott and Ais-Ga and everyone ('Hi, I'm being put back in hospital. Give you a call when I can. Love you x') most of the replies were along the WHAT THE FUCK sort of a theme.

But that couldn't happen here. THAT COULD NOT HAPPEN. I'm not saying that I am necessarily going to be sane (hahaha) here, but what I'm saying is that it would be harder for me to spiral and for things to get to that point, for you to be taken by surprise by a hospitalisation or whatever. For one thing, it's too social a living arrangement- I live in a flat with three lads and two other girls and one of those lads and one of those girls and I are constantly in and out of each others' rooms- they would know and I trust them, literally with my life. I know they would get me help, if I needed them to. For another, it's a lot harder to blow off plans, to lyffuk, when your friends all live in the next couple of houses, friends who I also trust entirely. And just to add to that, a couple of my mates here are studying psychology and so pretty soon they'll be able to read minds and then you can REALLY rest assured, hahahaha.

It's all trust. That's the thing with being ill, you have to trust people very quickly in order for you to have any sort of life. You have to trust that you can be open about your illness, you have to trust that they will keep you alive when you can't guarantee that you can do that for yourself. It's a bitch, because being ill makes you LESS trusting, especially with this sort of thing, because how many relationships has this killed for me? Too many. Even one would be too many, but too many to count. But I'm trusting my environment and you have to, too. Don't try and read too much into my words, just trust me.

And so, don't worry about me. Let me post depressing things if that's what I'm thinking and let me know that you'll know categorically when I'm NOT OK. How about I promise to tell you when I'm not, so that when I am ok but I need to write about things that make me sound as if I'm not, we are all on the same page? Brilliant. Bear this in mind when I post next, because I have some right odd shit swimming through my mind. T-R-U-S-T.

Sunday, 10 October 2010

Both very sad and very lovely.

I love the people who don't know how it feels. I am not bitter, I am more thankful on your behalf for your health than you could ever be. And I don't begrudge you your ignorance, I don't wish that you knew how lucky you are, because for you to understand that fully, you would have to have been here. Or maybe I should say 'you would have to BE here.' I wonder if it's true what they say, that this never fully leaves you. I hope to God not, I am almost crying at the thought of that. That goes against everything I believe in- you make your own luck. If you want things to be beautiful, you have to bloody well make them beautiful. You have to take responsibility, you have to pour all you are and all you could be, and if you need to, you have to beg, borrow and steal the ways to make this life beautiful.

And so I'm grateful. I'm grateful to have people around me to whom my life is so alien. I'm so, so glad you have never had to get so drunk to be able to live in the real world. I'm glad you have 'pre-drinks' to save yourself money later on, not because being alcohol fuelled is the only way you can look in the mirror to get ready. I'm glad that you've never had sex with somebody old enough to be your dad, your granddad, because you were just so relieved they didn't find you as repulsive as you found yourself. It's more beautiful that you know, that you eat because you are hungry or because you LIKE food.

I'm finding it difficult to express how different I am. The thing is, I can sit and I can tell you the things I have done in the past and the ways I have lived and all about the days and weeks spent in all the hospitals. But what I can't seem to get across is how much I am still the disease. And maybe that's ok, maybe that's another thing I should be grateful for, on your behalf- you cannot understand how a person does not HAVE the disease, the person is so entirely consumed by it that the person IS the disease. And that is lovely, I hope you never have to know this life. I am a reflection of the real world right now, I am doing the same things that most people here seem to be- I drink too much and sleep too late and skip anything practical. But my motives are different. I've already said about drinking. But as well as that, I will be so drunk that I can't string a sentence together, but silently working out the calories I have eaten and drank and the time I must spend dancing to burn those calories, before I can leave to collapse. I am exhausted, but I must always dance and I must always talk so fast and move so much and be so energetic to burn, burn, burn.

Seriously, I... I was going to say that I am happy, but this seems to say I'm not, eh? Happiness is relative and I am the happiest I can remember being, is that better? It's lovely to be around people who don't understand and aren't used to this life and I don't mean that in a patronising way. You are all so, so lucky and luckier still if you cannot get your head around that very luck. I just need this pretence of being normal to feel real, but I'm going to make it real. But I just need to remember that I am still ill and it's alright if I can't completely keep up. I can sit things out and it doesn't make me weak, it just means I'm healing. And to be healing I must be alive, scars do not form on the flesh of the dead, and the living must sometimes rest. I'm new to this world, I'm new to being young and alive, and so I AM different. Just wait for me.

Thursday, 7 October 2010

Fresh, fresh, not so fuckin' fresh ;)

It is freshers week in the world of, um, the Condron (and the entire population of Essex university, right fair) but I'm pretty sure the entire world (because I know the entire world stalks my life, shut yerrrr face) knows that and I am really pretty bloody drunk and I have no voice and life is quite lovely. There are so many stories that I have from this week, but there aren't that many I really ought to pour out of the WWW (I know, I pour all sorts of shit onto this site, but I may just have discovered limits) because when I am grown up and very important and successful and serious and t-total and wear trouser suits and that, the Daily Mail will use this to try and tell the world I am bad. Actually, I hope they do, that's when you know you are a goodie. But maybe the BBC or summat would turn against me, for being (to nick the title I've acquired here) a 'crazy ginger northerner'. How annoying is this paragraph? Yeah soz'ard, I KNOW. But maybe I'll tell you some shit later, when I decide that I am never going to be grown up and very important and successful and serious and t-total and wear trouser suits, how's about that?

I tell you what's funny, people in the sarrrrrf genuinely don't drink like we do up north. I know it's a stereotype but it's TRUE. You get me and Smelliott and we don't do owt sober- if we have somewhere to go or maybe are going shopping or even if we have nowt to do, we get wankered. And it's not just us, every bugger does it. But here, people drink lovely and delicately and NOBODY drinks vodka out the bottle and I am the only person who carries a hip flask everywhere. Dead odd.