Wednesday, 29 December 2010

A philosophy for 2011.

'I guess I could be pretty pissed off about what happened to me... but it's hard to stay mad, when there's so much beauty in the world. Sometimes I feel like I'm seeing it all at once, and it's too much, my heart fills up like a balloon that's about to burst... And then I remember to relax, and stop trying to hold on to it, and then it flows through me like rain and I can't feel anything but gratitude for every single moment of my stupid little life.'
-American Beauty.



Everything, EVERYTHING, will be fine. I'm feeling poorly right now, so I won't write a lot, I'm going to save my thoughts on 2010 for another day, another blog, because I have so many and I can't let them go. On my noticeboard, over my desk in my room at uni, I have an empty bag of feed, from when I had the feeding tube earlier on in the year. At first I kept it because I wanted to remind myself never to go back, losing weight, whatever, is never worth that. But it's on my board now to remind myself how far I've come. An plastic bag that caused so much anxiety six short months ago, is now the symbol of... I don't know. Would it be melodramatic to say my life? I've come so far. So far.

Sunday, 26 December 2010

Christmas without an eating disorder.

I stepped out of myself for a day. Or maybe I stepped into myself, into who I should be, could be, will be. I've realised that my eating disorder is not my frame, it's not as I always expected, yet feared. It's not my support, the bones of my being. It's not intrinsic to who I am, and without it I will not fall. None of it is anything but an exoskeleton, something to be shed and left, discarded unobtrusively. Gone. Of course, the irony here is that creatures tend to consume their exoskeleton. But maybe that's not ironic at all, maybe that's what I must do. Maybe each morsel eaten without compensation is a little more of the exoskeleton gone, swallowed like a pill.

Christmas has been fantastic, I can't describe how amazing a NORMAL Christmas is, when all you've associated with Christmas in the past is an anxiety that it's not possible to over-exaggerate, over an occasion that always seemed to be about food. Last year, I spent the day crying in my bathroom. This year I spent the day with my family. A dinner similar to what everybody else was eating. Fun, laughter, alcohol, a few Doctor Who re enactments and yes... food. I am so excited for 2011 and the being that I am going to be.

Thursday, 23 December 2010

6 weeks without scales.

My scales and I had a violent dispute a few weeks ago. I'll not get into it (because if you know me, I'm sure you can use your imagination- I'LL SET FIRE TO YA), but we decided a trial separation might be an idea. Oh, listen to me. I hate people who type all gay like this, personifying pointlessly; next I'll be writing from perspective of a cuddly toy. But oh no, no. Don't worry, aside from my talking Fairy Princess Peppa Pig, I'm not much of a cuddly toy type of a girl.

The separation isn't going horrifically, but I can't help but feel I'd feel, well, BETTER if I had them. I know that the amount of times I weigh myself isn't normal, neither is the importance I put on even the tiniest fluctuation (0.2kg of a gain can utterly ruin my day) but it just doesn't seem to be that much of a problem. At least when I know my weight, I know it. I can put it aside, to a point, whereas now my mind is taken up by imaginings of impossible weight gains and it's killing me. No, that's such an exaggeration. I'm actually pretty happy, altogether. But it's definitely playing on my mind, too much. It's ANNOYING me, but like I said- the separation isn't horrific. It's just not favourable to having my scales here.

And that's the thing, I can't even make the decision to check my weight now and then, I don't know, cut down on the number of times I weigh myself because my scales aren't HERE, they're alone for Christmas in Colchester, whilst I'm back up in Scunthorpe. Cutting down, I don't know... despite me saying before that it doesn't seem to be much of a problem, I know that putting an inordinate amount of importance on the number given to me by a few pieces of what would otherwise have been scrap plastic and metal isn't RIGHT. It's so illogical that it's laughable. It's like using your temperature to gather how good a person you are- I KNOW that the number given to me by the scales is relevant to nothing but my weight, and that as long as I stay within the healthy range, my weight is relevant to absolutely NOTHING.

But sometimes my weight is the only thing I feel connected to- facing it is my punishment or reward, isn't that sick? It's cause and effect and it's, well... I'm trying to describe this without using the word 'control' because shit, that word annoys me. I think I've written before about how it's possible to describe anything, in anybody's life, rightly or wrongly as a quest for control. But still, eating disorder specialists love to throw the word around, and maybe I should stop resisting it and let them.

How annoying, maybe they're right.

So now I'm obsessively trying to work out my weight by my thighs. Which I should just give up as a bad job, because even if I could work it out, and then even if I managed to shrink my thighs, what would I achieve? I'm not trying to squeeze into a smaller clothes size, because my clothes all fit perfectly well, thank you. I'm not trying to make my body attractive, because I actually have no interest in what you think of it, thank you. I'm not trying to make my body smaller, because I think it's actually an alright body, thank you. I don't want people to think that I'm skinny, I don't want bones and I most definitely have no urge to be like Mary-Kate. I don't really want anything but health. But, you know, I'd still quite like to know what that lump of waste plastic and metal thinks of my body. God. Fuck you, scales.

Tuesday, 21 December 2010

Snow, part deux.

I wrote about snow before, and how it was getting me down, because it reminded me of this time last year and what an awful time that was. Well, here's the strange thing... now that I'm home and I'm in the same setting that I was in this time last year- sitting on the same sofa, looking out on the same garden and drinking squash out of the same glasses, it's just not getting me down. It's doing the opposite, it's making me feel good about how far I've come. Because although the setting is the same, I am so completely different. I think the fact that the setting HASN'T changed has just highlighted what a different person I am now. So much has changed, and at the same time NOTHING has changed.

Saturday, 18 December 2010

Home for Christmas.

It's nice to be home. I keep typing and then deleting bits, because all I really have to say is that IT'S NICE TO HOME. Oh, and it's bloody cold. It's colder (and it's grim, hahaha) up north and it's killing my Raynaud's, so I can't text. I don't think anybody from The Colc, anyone who would have been texting me and not getting a reply, reads this, BUT I'M PUTTING IT OUT THERE ANYWAY.

Not that I usually reply to texts, if I'm honest. But there you go!

Tuesday, 14 December 2010

Realising you're not made of glass.

Don't tell her I said so, but Willis said summat interesting yesterday. We were talking about how we are untouchable, how we cannot be hurt by anybody else, and she made the point that when you realise that you're not made of glass, nobody can hurt you and you can do anything. It's a better way of looking at the whole thing than the way I was looking at it, truth be told. We've both come to the conclusion that we're untouchable, that nothing or nobody can hurt us, and we have both arrived at this notion through being hurt. And yes, through realising that we are NOT made of glass.

Which is where Willis' theory stops; you hurt me more than I have ever been hurt, but still it doesn't break me, therefore I am unbreakable. Nice, neat. But it's slightly different for me. You CAN'T hurt me, not to any degree, because anything you can do to me I have done a thousand times worse to myself. Left on it's own like that, I think that's sort of sad. Especially when looked at in the present tense. I mean like, anything you can do to me right now doesn't compare to what I am doing to myself right now. That's a tougher one I suppose, since I am being relatively (relative in my own experience, rather than summat more general) nice to myself and so I suppose I don't really need to dwell on whether that's sad or not.

Or maybe I ought to think, because maybe it's not sad at all. Maybe it's liberating. That's what we were talking about to begin with, the freedom that comes from realising that we are not made of glass. Have you realised yet that you're not made of glass? Really? If your immediate response to that question is to scoff, to roll your eyes, or to not even really ask yourself it, it's because you are presuming that you know it. Or maybe you do know it, maybe it is that obvious. But do you believe it? Do you believe in your own strength or do you ever genuinely believe that you can't do this any more? The only thing that will break a person, that will break you, is the moment that suddenly you doubt your solidity. I'm not made of glass, but you might well make yourself into glass, do you understand?

Saturday, 11 December 2010

A week left.

Term is over in a week and I get to go home for the first time in two and a half months. I'm ready for it. I'm getting through day by day, hour by hour, at the moment and the days where I don't wake up needing to cry, are the days I usually end up in tears by 4pm. I don't know. See, there is nothing wrong with me, I am just absolutely exhausted. There's nothing really that's making me tired; I'm not doing excessive exercise, I'm not eating TOO terribly. In fact, I'm not really tired at all.

I think I just need to step out of existence in a way that's not possible here, where I'm surrounded by people. I get like this every so often, but I've never had to hold it off for so long before. I suppose this is what it's like to have responsibilities towards people and towards just general SHIT, besides your sanity. I don't want to upset my friends or my boyfriend. I don't want to miss any more of university than I absolutely have to. But I need to sleep. I need to be by myself and to cry and to just generally hide.

Thursday, 9 December 2010

A night out.

Having to get drunk in order to face your body in the shower can't be that safe. Slippery floor and all that. I do think that my eating disorder and the amount I drink helps my intelligence though, you know. It's a careful balancing act, working out how much alcohol is necessary based on how much I've eaten over the last few days, how early I'm showering and, um... oh, my brain is melting. Maybe my hypothesis isn't all that brilliant, HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

Friday, 3 December 2010

Snow.

We've got a fair whack of snow and it's getting me down. You know how when snow first falls everybody gets really excited, because they forget the inconvenience and what a bitch it is when it turns to ice, and really how bloody cold and wet it is? Well, I never forget that. But really, that's not what bothers me so much about snow. You take, I don't know, torrential rain and what a bloody inconvenience that is (if my face gets in the rain too much, my skin peels off. I'm not kidding, I'm allergic to rain. Or maybe just Scunthorpe rain, since that shit is radioactive, like most of the population. 'Hi, welcome to Scunthorpe. The only place that advertises it's inhabitants in its name'), but that doesn't depress me any more than it thrills me.

Snow, on the other hand... There are two big issues with snow. Besides the obvious ones about how it limits footwear and I have no balance and it's cold and my fragile blue eyes cannot handle the brightness (which isn't REALLY an issue because I always have at least 2 pair of sunglasses on me). We got snow last year at this time, when I was waiting everyday for the phone call to tell me that a bed was available for me in Leeds, to go serve out my eating disorder sentence. Then we got snow when I was IN Leeds, serving out that such sentence. Actually, the only issue I'm going to write about here is that one- the reminder of YCED. I don't especially want to get into the third because it's actually too fukmalyf for this blog, even.

I've been through much worse in my life than eating disorder treatment. Much, much worse. I can't say it was the best time of my life, but it wasn't even the worst of this year- getting sectioned and having a tube going up my nose and into my stomach, having calories constantly being forced down it? Much worse. No doubt. But it's everything that that time represents. The hope leading up to it. The imagining of a pure freedom that just never arrived. Think of the abolition of slavery. The slaves and their supporters, sure, they worked and they prayed and they organised resistance, won a war. Get told they're free and then what? Most of them ended up working for the same masters and paying any wages they got back to the master in exchange for board. And here I am, I am free. 'Free'.