Tuesday, 23 November 2010

Quick note about my recovery.

I've had a flick through my most recent posts and they seem to be really, well, I don't know. If I didn't know better I'd expect the voice behind them to be in some major arse denial by stating that she's in eating disorder recovery. So let me tell you something. I keep my weight stable. And I keep it there deliberately- I don't try to lose weight (which I'm pretty sure I could do, piece of piss) and obviously I'm not going to make an effort to gain. My BMI is maybe about 19.8, HEALTHY. I'm not happy with the number on the scales, I'm not happy with how my body looks, but I am very, very happy with the concept of health and how much healthier my body is now, than it has been in years. That's my one aspiration here, HEALTH. And so for that, and that alone, no matter how down I seem on my body, no matter how many days I struggle to eat or not to binge, as long as health is my main priority and I'm working as hard as I can for that, I think I can truly state I'm in recovery.

I'm not recovered. Let's draw that distinction, oui? I'm still fragile and as a general rule, my days are evenly split between a healthy amount of calories consumed in a healthy manner and days spent perishing in the disorder. But as I'm gradually getting stronger through, well, my DESIRE to get stronger, I'll get there. So don't worry about my recent vents and what appears to be me down. I have been down. I have eaten badly, if at all, but it's nothing more than a bump in the road, ok?

Sunday, 21 November 2010

I don't usually like poetry.

But I want to bathe in this.

The time will come
when, with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror,
and each will smile at the other's welcome,

and say, sit here, Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

I want the last two lines tattoo'd.

Thursday, 18 November 2010


People tend to be sort of reluctant when it comes to taking medication. No wait, let me narrow that generalisation a little... Brits tend to be reluctant when it comes to medication- I've seen many a documentary (maybe I should just stop there, I've seen many a documentary. I'm a documentary junkie, I'm not kidding, I'd watch a documentary on bloody patch-working or brick making or, I don't know, paint drying) on American's polluting themselves and their kids with pointless chemicals.

I don't really understand the reluctance. I mean, I do. Ish. I don't think a boisterous child needs to be fed ADHD meds or powerful psychiatric drugs. If a child is happy, let them be. And I don't think anti-depressants are a singularly effective treatment for eating disorders, for example. Oh my, especially not fluoxetine (prozac). DON'T EVEN GET ME STARTED. I swear that drug is more dangerous than... Oops, I got started. Back to task (I'm a little drunk, last night was corkin'). I think really, well, I don't really care about taking medication, either way. Would I rather not have to take it? Maybe, just for the convenience- not having to get prescriptions and all that. But the action of taking five tablets a day, as I take at the moment, doesn't take more than a few seconds. Most of the people who have issue with taking medication are the ones who don't NEED medication.

And that's lovely for them, for all of you, you CAN sit there and say that you don't like things messing about with the biology of your body (even though you pump yourself full of pesticides and chemicals in your food and drink, but I'll not go there because I love Pepsi Max and much as I love documentaries). But please don't get on your high horse and don't presume that, for example, taking anti-depressants is taking the easy route. Anti-depressants are easier than depression, sure. But I don't believe anyone who has genuinely been depressed would judge another person for doing anything that's likely to free them from the prison. It's stupid. It's like not getting your vaccinations and it sort of takes the piss out of people who haven't access to... Oh shit, another rant for another day.

Weirdly, people seem to be more put off by drugs that they think are going to change their personality. I say that's weird because it's so uneducated. It's such a big claim and such a ill-informed one, but so many people have it. My mum is so brilliant and the most tolerant and open-minded person I have ever had to privilege to meet, but she's hesitant even when my medication changes. And so let me tell you categorically, psychiatric drugs do not change your personality.

One of my friends asked me whether I ever though about coming off everything and just being myself, which is extremely adorable. But also madly laughable. Without the drugs, I am the same person. What makes up a personality? I'm not off to get scientific (mainly 'cause, like, I can't get scientific. I'm doing politics and not, um, science for a reason, yanno. Or hair-dressing... I need to remember NOT to cut my own fringe), but it's basically likes and dislikes and characteristics and wit and intelligence and all that kind of shit, right? Psychiatric drugs do not change that, no more than any other sort of medication. Maybe your moods change and maybe a break from symptoms brings out new sides to a person, but again, recovery from any, not just mental, long term symptoms will do that to a person. Priorities probably shift, but usually they shift to what the person wishes they could have been before- it's not that it's a new focus, it's more that there's now an ability to make what was previously a desired focus into something more.

And sure, I've thought of coming off them. Not seriously for a long while, because it's always absolutely disastrous when I try to go without. Yes, I'm dependent on them. But again, why the negative connotations there? Most women are dependent on tampons for one week out of four. Most adults are dependent on caffeine. Every human (shut up, Anorexia) is dependent on food. Air. So fuck it, relax. If a medication helps, what's the problem?

Saturday, 13 November 2010

Start again.

I've had a hard week. Truth be told, it's 'cause I'm shit at... oh, what's that horribly clinical term? MANAGING MY CONDITIONS. I mean, I'm getting better at organising my eating disorder. Par example, this last week has been massively bulimic (massive being the bloody word, I have gained weight and I feel disgustingly deformed for it) but my day's hardcore bingeing and vom'ing hasn't started until I got through most of my tasks for the day, HA. It doesn't stop me getting fat, but letting my eating disorder prevent me getting owt done would make me feel even more shit and that would make it harder to be able to write it off as a blip and move on. I've become beautifully logical and methodical, with regards my eating disorder.

But otherwise, I'm bloody shite. I'm a complete and utter prisoner to whichever force is most powerful that day- general anxiety; social anxiety; the pre-cursor to mania; depression; general FUKMALYF, I'M SO FAT shit, et al. I mean, don't get me wrong, my life is good right now. I'm not saying that my life is as ruled by these forces as it was a few months ago, but what I am saying is I don't take responsibility. Even in this paragraph, have you noticed I haven't? I'm very detached from this kind of stuff, I sort of feel like I'm shunted back and forth between whatever areas my illnesses cover and instead of trying to get some footing, I just sort of go along with it. But I need to stop allowing myself to be controlled quite so much and I need to separate what is me and what is the illness.

I'm taking responsibility, but I'm not taking the blame. I am ill and let's be realistic- a bit of positivity or whatever isn't going to do a lot for that. But it doesn't have to be exactly like this. I'm just realising that if I don't want my life is to be defined by hospital trips and hiding, it doesn't have to be- my diagnoses aren't going to stop me living some sort of normal life forever. And although my life now is nearer to normal (well, normal to a student. Fully aware that there's not really a lot normal about the student lifestyle, hahaha) than I ever thought it could be, it's not enough. I think I've worked so hard at fighting the good fight against my ED, that now I want more because I know there can be more, IS more, out there. With the exception of this week, I'm constantly getting better and that's amazing and I want... I don't know how to explain this. I want to see what I can get when I put that much work into overcoming the rest. Well no, not overcoming. Contrary to popular belief, I'm not stupid and I know mental illness doesn't work like that. But changing my reactions, moving the fuck on, in a sort of, 'well yesterday was shit and I wish I hadn't have done that, but AH WELL, shit happens.'

It's hard to get my head around, because it's so abstract. And I'm aware that actions or whatever that look so much like pandering to the illness are not necessarily and what is pandering one day isn't necessarily the next. Sometimes the Anorexia in me has me spend a couple of days in bed, because I'm too fat to be seen, with bottles and bottles of Pepsi Max. And that's obviously a negative and puts me back. But sometimes I get so exhausted and I need to take a holiday from the world, so I take to my bed for a few days with some bottle of Pepsi Max. And that's definitely no negative, because it's how I relax and I feel so much better afterwards. I think maybe I just need to take better notice of my moods and behaviours, to begin with. WE'LL SEE.

Wednesday, 10 November 2010

Being disliked.

It's sometimes exhausting, being disliked.

Being hated isn't a blanket thing, people aren't necessarily anything but lovely, just because they dislike you. Most people are not cunts, that's what it comes down to. And so when they hate you but they know you're tapped, they'll pretend not to so that you don't go hang yourself and list them in your suicide note. Or maybe just they don't hate you, but they'd rather you weren't around, with your words and your vodka and your attention seeking. So they don't tell you, because the only way you could not be around now is through your stock pile of pills, and they don't want that, either- think of the disruption. And then you have to pretend that you don't know that they hate you, whilst all the time you just really want to sit them down and either agree with them what an awful person you are, or try to explain away all your faults, by way of the disease. The past. Your social anxiety and subsequent over-compensation. Whilst always always always agreeing with them in your head, about what an annoyance, what a stupid little girl you are.

I'm not exaggerating when I say I'm the most disliked person I know. In other news, I've eaten more in the last couple of days than I had in the couple of weeks beforehand (and I haven't been hardcore restricting... I've just eaten A LOT the last few days) and I am very, very, very fat. Also, my hand is deformed and I like Munch Bunch yogurts a lot. But I don't like the word yogurt with an H in it.

Saturday, 6 November 2010

The irresponsibility of the medical profession.

I can't really be arsed explaining this, but whenever summat big or significant happens, especially in relation to me being tapped and that, I can't NOT blog it. Oh, that's a bit sad- I saw an episode of Arthur where the same thing happened to Muffy (although her topics were maybe a little saner than mine. Maybe. I bet Muffy gets an eating disorder when she grows up) and that was all very tragic. So I'll try and make this quick and painless, because I have a much more interesting topic for you for my next entry. But this needs to be typed, ouioui?

I stuck a kitchen knife deeply into my hand on Wednesday, in an attempt to make a flap of skin that I could peel back, to make sure that the inside of my thumb didn't look like a chicken leg. Please feel free to laugh and scoff, call me emo or whatever. Pull a face at how disgusting it is that I did it, and how revolting it is that I'm actually now admitting to it and writing about it. I really don't mind how you choose to view that, but don't view me too harshly until I explain why I did it (apart from to check my thumb didn't look like a chicken leg, obviously), ok?

Actually, nah. I could type out a full and comprehensive time-line of the events that ran up to it, but there'd be no point- the important thing is always the significance and what comes next, rarely an event itself and besides, I can sum it up much more briefly. The whole reason for the whole thing, is that the medical profession and the NHS lack communication and were irresponsible enough to leave without the medication that would have prevented me doing it. And then had to cheek to attempt to hospitalise, and when I wouldn't agree to that, section me, because of it. Cheeky bastard. So now I'm stuck with a giant gash and a bandaged hand and an acute embarrassment over two friends who have known me a month and had to see me in that state. Thank-you, doctors. Ta.