Friday, 30 December 2011


Sometimes, I'm really scared of my face. Sometimes I'm afraid to check mirrors because I don't recognise myself, I don't know what I'll see and how I feel and what I should feel about what I'll see. Sometimes I look and think it's an average sort of face, the face of the type of person you would never look at twice- not majorly deformed but certainly not a drop of pretty, or even really pleasant. It's just a face. My forehead and nose and mouth and eyes aren't especially big, nor small, nor is there any poetry or grace or even character about where and how they sit. No beauty- conventional nor based on soul and personality. My skin is fair, a bit freckly and I usually have a spot knocking about somewhere. Average. Forgettable. Which to me is a terrifying mix, even during these moments when I don't believe I'm especially hideous, because the concept of average, the idea of being forgotten and forgettable, keeps me up at night. And then sometimes I look and I'm repulsed. I can't put my finger exactly on what is wrong with my face, because the features are all so dull. But it's like I was created by Frankenstein, parts innocuous when belonging to others, forced and mangled together to create a monster. Ugly. Utterly repulsive and unnatural, a being that terrible that it should never have been possible.

There's so much beauty in this world. There's the beautifully terrible, like the funeral of a friend you hadn't seen in too long and the reunion of old friends, in grief. There are the beautifully sweet moments when a child wraps their arms around you and tells you completely frankly that they love you. Hearing a song that takes you back to a beautiful time. The bittersweet beauty of catching a movement out of the corner of your eye and the excitement for that second when you think might be the person you know it just can't be, it can't be, it can't be. There are 50th year wedding anniversaries and babies and catching a person in a moment of serenity or bliss and sunny days and cups of tea and taking your high-heels off. There's so much that I think it's OK that I'm not beautiful, there's so much that I ought to be able to just be happy that I live in a time and a place and around people that create such beauty. Or maybe beauty works like the salt water and the potato, an osmosis effect. I'd rather be surrounded by beauty than be beautiful, I think. I'm realising.

Don't misunderstand me here, this isn't purely an eating disorder thing- you don't get an eating disorder because you want to be beautiful and you don't keep that level of pain at a certain constant so as to be beautiful. But make no mistake, there's so much beauty in the world but there's also so much ugliness. The things we do, the things I do and have done; parts of my life have been ugly and I responded by making myself and my life and the world around me more ugly. This kind of illness is like having a pair of glasses welded to your face, which distort everything and make the world appear decaying, diseased and hopeless. Although the disorder is not really about beauty at all, it's too easy to fall into deep pits where it seems the only way to create some breathing room from the crippling ugliness of the world would be to strip back parts of your being, your flesh and your consciousness- less of you equating to less ugliness in the atmosphere. Which is ironic, of course (as well as completely wrong, since there isn't a finite amount of beauty/ugliness, obviously), because the world becomes more ugly as the eating disorder glasses bore tighter into your being. God, there's so much beauty that I feel like I'm only just glimpsing, after everything. So close to seeing it properly, I hope.

Thursday, 22 December 2011

Christmas excitement.

I am ridiculously excited. It might in part be my new anti-depressos (I meant to say a few weeks ago, they finally changed them), but whatever- I haven't been this excited for Christmas since I was about 8. And it's not even the presents, because I know I won't be getting very much. I've already had some incredible shit from Ellis and Team Willis, and what with now being single and MG being a skint bint, an' that. But it's being home and with the family, which is very trite but very true. MG and I are off out for tea tonight and then we're off to Murderhell (big shopping jobby outside Sheffield) tomorrow. Then on Christmas eve we're taking my youngest cousins to the cinema then we're going to have a take-away and get fucked, hahahaha. Christmas day we're off to spend the day with my grandma, two of my aunties, one of my uncles and my youngest cousins and then on the 27th one of my aunties is having a big family do which will be the perfect combo of alc, food and karaoke- I come from a line of amazing(ly bad) singers, so it's an almighty win. Despite what Aisy might say, '...but seriously. YOU SHOULD HONESTLY NEVER SING. IT WAS HONESTLY THAT BAD. And I mean I'm generally not one for harsh truths but DEAR GOD' it'll be summat to behold. ;)

Yep, lots of food everywhere. And I don't care, I'm not worried. I weighed myself earlier on in the week and freaked, then I've restricted a wee bit this week (actually, the amount I've eaten is probably more like a dieter, than owt. I've just gone a bit light, nothing ridiculous), just to put my mind at rest, but I'm going to enjoy this Christmas! Bar last year, which was also lovely, Christmas has usually been a tough time for me, just with food and everyone being happy and me being miserable and everything. Christmas 2009 was mostly spent crying and vom'ing and I will neverevereverever have a Christmas like that again. I'm going to fucking enjoy this one, babies!

Monday, 19 December 2011


On Saturday, I got up and rolled downstairs, flicked the lid of my laptop up to scroll down facebook, see if I'd missed anything, ahem, important. And I had; important even, not 'important'. For once, my page wasn't full of shite about nights out and hangovers. Instead, my newsfeed was full of people who had been in my year at school, posting statuses about what a sad day it was, with ambiguous RIP messages. I don't think I've ever felt so sick, at that moment any of the 150 or so members of my year who hadn't posted, could have been dead. For a moment, they all were.

Finding out who it was didn't make me feel any better. I hadn't seen Harry Travers since college and we hadn't really spoken since school. Bar a couple of dates we went on when we were about 15 and the fact that we had a trillion mutual friends and hung around in a similar circle, we didn't have masses to do with each other. I've noticed that when a person dies, people who weren't that close to them create an exaggerated grief and those not truly affected seem to attempt to compete, in this. I'm not talking about those who post respects and heartfelt messages, more the ones who post 17 times and clearly have had very little to do with the deceased, and that's exactly what I'm not after doing here. But it's hit me.

A part of my school life is forever gone. A part of Saint Bede's class of '07 is forever gone. The fact that a person so young, so loved, so important to so many, that that person, their light can go out. A family left, a week before Christmas. It's a sudden gap. When a person dies after a great age, they fade until their fire is a candle flame that burns out. But Harry's light was a forest fire was somehow extinguished in a heartbeat, leaving all sort of gaps and broken hearts. Even those of us on the cusp cannot comprehend a world without him, the void in our school experience and a bittersweet flavour to our memories of those years. I can't even imagine the pain for his friends and family, and I'm grateful for my ignorance.

Thursday, 15 December 2011

Driving home for Christmas.

Well, OK, not driving. Driving and blogging would maybe be a touch irresponsible, even more so given that I actually can't drive and my body runs on vodka. I have really bad motor skills, I can't even pick up coins. I know that that's not all that relevant to driving, but it can't be a good thing. So no, I'm not driving. I'm not even on my way home, I've been home a few hours but there isn't a song about having got four trains home for Christmas, earlier. That I know of, anyway. It's good to be home, but I'm shattered. I've been on a bender this week, as ever, and I slept through alcofrolick therapy on Tuesday as well, 'cause I'd drank too much on Monday. I'm not sure what I think about it- I need to make some decisions. But after Christmas.

Not a lot else to say. I still want to cry when I think about not going away next year. I'm not so bitter about it now, we all have our own shite, but I am angry that I'm still letting people who hurt me in the past win. Eating disorders are like taking revenge on a country for nuking half your country, by nuking the OTHER half of your country, so I'm trying to make sure I don't slip. December is not a time for calorie counting, after all. January is the dieting month 'cause there's nowt else to bloody do (apart from shop, of course). Anyway, Momma Ginge has a tub of chocolate fudge frosting in the fridge.

Thursday, 8 December 2011

A little bit bitter.

In, oh, 2008 I applied for uni. I remember looking at lists and lists of places that did politics and having no idea how you ever managed to pick a place to go. A place that you'll live in for at least three years and a place that would be on your CV forever- it's a bit of a beast of a task. My mum didn't go to uni, but she reckoned that you should pick a city that you liked and then sort of go from there. I like Manchester, I really like Manchester. But that's less than two hours away and a LOT of people I went to college with went there, so that was out. I needed a fresh start, more than anything. I needed to be able to go somewhere where I wouldn't recognise anyone, where I could be someone else. I love Liverpool, but I didn't like the uni. I liked... actually, I'll stop there 'cause I like a lot of cities up north, but that was the problem- they were all places I couldn't start afresh.

I don't know how I found the University of Essex, I really don't. It's a good university, especially for politics, but I still can't remember how I found it. But I did and I looked through the course and I loved it. I made my poor mum drive me the million years down for the open day and loved it moremore. I got an interview a few months later and came down again, that time with my dad, and fancied the interviewer and so loved it moremoremore. A good part of my original love for it was because they did an international programme, a year abroad, as part of pretty much any course. It took more UCAS points, but I wanted it so much and I actually ended up with the international programme as my firm choice and the standard as my insurance.

At the last minute (I know I'm telling this like a story, but I didn't blog when all this was going on, so consider it a catch up), I had to defer. I was due to start uni here at the beginning of October 2009, but I got out of hospital at the end of August that year and I was ridiculously ill. So I took a year out, decided at the last minute, and spent the year in and out of hospital, in and out of various therapies. It was horrific, easily the worst year of my life, but I knew it would only be a matter of months until I got to move away and start again. When all my friends were away and I was going through hell, I knew it'd only be a few months until it was my turn. I'd get to go to uni and then I'd get to go even further and have the year away.

But, as ever, it's not worked how it should. When I got out of hospital in October this year, I knew I couldn't go away next year. I wanted to go to America and even if I could get health insurance (obviously a massive 'if'), what if I needed hospitalisation? What then? It's hard enough being so far from home now, when it all goes tits up. I couldn't have done it. Yesterday, about 8 people I know got their international placements, including my (only recently) ex-boyfriend. I'm happy for them, I am. Especially Daryl. But I'm bitter. I hate to admit it, but I'm bitter. I'm not usually the sort to lament the fact that all that happened happened to me, but right now I am and I can't help it.

All I wanted was to get better and then to excel. It sounds a lot, I know, but I worked hard for it and it wasn't enough. I worked fucking hard and went through hell, and it wasn't enough. I wanted to go away and I did all I could so that I could, including that horrible year out, and still I can't. It's childish, but I feel like I'm being punished for crimes of the past- the crimes against me and the acts I did against myself, the behaviours that take so much work to undo, even now. I know nothing that's worth anything comes easy, but they say that if you work hard enough, it can be done. Don't believe that, sometimes it really can't. It sounds miserable to say, and nobody else will say it, but all that shit about hard-work reaping success and believing in yourself is absolute bullshit. Apparently you need either the luck that means you've had shit straightforward, or you need the ability to delete the past. So right now, I'm a bit bitter. I'm angry. I'm hurt. Everything I did, all that work, to nothing. I know you can say it's not nothing, chances are I'll still get the degree, but that's not all it was for me and that's not all I worked for- it's survival versus living. I'm probably still going to get my degree, but it's not about that, it's so much more. It's wanting something so much and working for it so hard and still not getting it, even though you're 100% capable, because of things that happened so long ago- a course marked out and a destiny.

And I'm bitter that it happened to me.

Monday, 5 December 2011


(balls, I wrote this and then thought I best define 'dieting' better. I'm not really talking dietingdieting, I'm more talking being A MENTAL LITTLE EATING DISORDER SHADOW- shadow 'cause you're not a real person when you're not fighting it- ok?)

I find myself planning diets for every occasion I can find, finding an excuse to torture myself just that little bit more and to take any pleasure from the build up to an event is a talent I have. I'm pretty sure right now I should be dieting for Christmas (I'm currently knocking back the white chocolate Corky's though... fuck you, eating disorder ;)), but I don't overly want to. Truth be told, I cam't be arsed when I've worked hard to get to this point. But when I'm looking forward to something I'm more likely to either eat so little that I can't feel any pleasure, or to beat myself up over being fat that I can't enjoy it, either.

I've got that feeling, you know when you're between the ages of about 8 and 14 and you manage to pull a sicky from school, then feel so guilty that you start to feel a bit sick and sort of spend the day in bed, not sure if you're ill or not? I feel so guilty over the fact that I'm not dieting that I'm not eating as much as I probably should. I'm a nightmare. And part of my cares because I should NOT be doing this shite, but the other part is too busy trying to work out damage limitation, trying to convince myself that everything, whatever slip/mini-relapse I might have, is all fiiiiiine. I don't want to obsess to the point that I make it an issue, but... oh I don't know.

I'm dead looking forward to Christmas though, I really am. Not just to get away from Essex, although uni is completely doing my head in, as I keep whinging about, but the chance to go home will be verrry much appreciated. No matter how long I live away, and I can't imagine managing to find a career up north after uni, I will alwaysalways be a Scunthorpe girl. It's a hole, but it's MY hole and I miss it. 10 days, 10 days, 10 days. I just need to keep healthy until then, I can't help but think that if I persuade myself going home/Christmas is a chore I won't be so desperate to lose weight. But I need summat to look forward to and I don't see why I should have to sort of dread everything, or convince myself I'm dreading everything, in order to keep the eating disorder in check.

But then I reckon losing a few kilo isn't exactly going to- no. Shut up, brain.

Friday, 2 December 2011

Paranoia and preparing my defense.

I didn't have a drink all day yesterday. I was then violently sick all night and passed out this morning. Oh, sweet dependency. I'm a disaster.

I'm currently still attempting to trudge on with my essays, it's not going too well. I've got myself convinced that if I don't get amazing marks I'm going to get thrown out of uni. Or, rather, if my case comes up and they're wanting to throw me out, if I have perfect marks I have a better defense. Bit of a difference there I suppose, but either way, it's not helping the perfection paralysis. Woman I see from student support told me to just not do them. Last year, I missed two essays, from two different modules, and it went before the exam, um, panel-y thing and they decided to ignore the ones I missed and not mark me down. It's a safety net, but missed essays aren't going to help my defense...

I'm sounding like I'm on trial and really do feel like it. And that's me being optimistic. It's better to be on trial than not be. If you're on trial, you have a chance of being found innocent. Sometimes I feel like the mob is watching, waiting, ready to lynch me for any slip. Look normal, act normal. The university has more or less said that any episodes or anything like that and I'm out, something about my conditions being too great to be managed here. I'm getting to the point where every time I'm out on campus, even if just nipping to the bloody laundrette, I'm repeating a refrain about looking and acting normally, whatever that means. I'm so paranoid it's unreal, I genuinely do feel constantly like they're just sitting, watching and waiting. Like anything I say might be overheard. Any laugh too shrill, voice too loud, bare legs in the cold might all be used against me. It's making me miserable, but I'm afraid to admit that for what it might mean to my case. Is it ok to be miserable?

13 days 'til I can go home for Christmas.

Tuesday, 29 November 2011

Perfection paralysis.

It's an almighty eating disorder cliche, but I'm a perfectionist. Slightly less cliched, I'm a secret perfectionist. Your quintessential tart with a heart, full blown I-really-care-but-want-to-look-like-I-don't. Not because I think it's uncool to not care, or owt like that... I'm hipster enough to be more drawn to the uncool, but not hipster enough to make THAT cool, if you follow ;)

There are a few things I care about. Actually, there are a lot of things I care about. I care what people think of me, although not quite enough anymore to waste time on people I don't think are worth it or to attempt to fit in. Or enough to delete this blog, with all the shit I've managed to cause through it and my 'attention seeking', hahahaha. I care what people think of my friends or family; I have an insanely intense hate for anybody who has ever wronged someone I love. There's a friend of a friend who every time I see, I want to set fire to her stupid fucking face, for shit she's said about another of my friends. I can't even look at her. I care about my degree and the grades that I get and, of everything, that's most definitely a secret. God forbid people think I miss classes and lectures because I'm an anxious mess, rather they think that I just don't care.

It's caring about my degree that's an actual nightmare right now. I have two deadlines this week and one next. I've done one of the essays and it's bad. It's really not good. I mean, I highly doubt that it's not passable, but it's a long way off perfect. I'm trying to avoid the word 'average' because it actually makes me want to cry a bit, to the point where in the past I've deliberately failed things I was afraid I'd do average in. It's something that I really need to work on. So I'm faced with an essay that's pretty A-word, another that needs doing by Thursday and another after that to be in on Monday. And I just can't start the one for Thursday, I can't do it. It's worse than writer's block, it's total perfection paralysis. It's not going to be perfect; I've been too ill, I am too ill now. So I can't do it. I need to care just a little less, just so I can get something on paper instead of getting so worked up.

It's not just the pressure from myself, though. I wrote a month or so ago about potentially being thrown out of the uni. Well, that potential is still there and unlikely to go between now and graduation in summer 2013. I can't have any episodes between now and then, or I'm out. I need to show them, I need to get perfect academics to stand any chance of being able to appeal that if, when, I next have an episode. I'm so stressed. I need to calm my thoughts, try and get something written, anything. I need to stop thinking about the potential of being thrown out, the pressure is melting my head, but... Oh. Stress. Garbled stress.

This is such an Arthur (Arthur Story) blog, I'll no doubt write summat proper about the being kicked out thing, when I'm a bit more calm. Oooft, done. I'm actually getting pissed off at the shite written quality of this, hahahahahahaha.

Thursday, 24 November 2011

Feeling like an adult.

I'm 21 and most of my friends are either 20 or 21 (babies Ellis and Ais-Ga not withstanding). There's this odd thing that I've found around people my age and the concept of being an adult, that is, nobody feels like one, or rather, nobody admits to feeling like one. This could just be because all of my friends are students and the student lifestyle is pretty much like being a child, just without the nagging of a real, live, indisputable, adult. We eat shit, watch shit and stay up late dancing or doing nothing at all. Sometimes, I eat a jar of jam for tea, or, more often than I care to admit, a packet of biscuits, and my room is covered in a knee-deep layer of shite. Add alcohol and sex and we have the best of both worlds.

I've heard properproper adults say that they still feel 16 or 18 or 21 or whatever, but I think that's probably something to do with wishing they didn't have the responsibilities and feeling a bit bewildered by the fact that they DO have the responsibilities they have. I think most people would struggle to tell you what they mean about still feeling like a kid, but I reck it's just that they expect that becoming an adult is an event, a sudden epiphany and an urge to get a mortgage and an ironing board.

I don't feel like a child. I don't ever remember feeling like a child. Don't get me wrong, I'm not going to tell you that when I was 11 I'd rather have spoken about the cost of living over Gareth Gates (mmmm, Gareth Gates), or that I didn't get worked up over and embroiled in the messy, messy politics of the playground. I don't think I was ever really any more or less mature than most people, but it's not about that. I just never had the magic, or if I did it was gone by the time I turned about 4. You know how everything is exciting and the world is a weird, but exciting, place? I think that's what I was missing. I knew too much, I think. I was terrified of what I'd seen and the expectation I always that had things would get worse. There's not a single time in my life you could pay me to go back to, except maybe my first year at uni, but not a single time in my childhood.

I think there's also something about mortality that ends a childhood, too. I never lost anybody as a child, besides my great-grandma who was well into her 90s, but experience of mortality comes in many forms. Every time you purge food in any way, which is massively traumatic to the body as well as the soul, you take you a risk with your life and your health, you take a responsibility and a risk and I'd been doing that years before I even hit puberty- the start of adulthood, I suppose. I first overdosed (in that I took more pills than recommended, with intention and planning. I just failed to realise how great the human body is and how much it can absorb, so it was almost hilariously uneventful which terrified me, actually, at the time) before I was a teenager.

It doesn't make me all that noticeably different from people my own age now and it didn't then. Sometimes though, I feel utterly confused as to how people my age operate and they feel. When you're at school, you're best off with a reasonably big circle of friends and one best one, the system is sort of organised to ensure that most people, especially girls, have that and I was no different. The friends changed over the years, but I always had that kind of a structure, which fell apart as we all got older and moved on and I got more ill and less interested (and probably less interesting too, hahaha). Which is all fine and, I'm pretty sure, natural. I wouldn't want that set-up now, all the allegiances you have to keep up, made complicated by playground politics. I have a handful of close friends and no group to manage. But still so many people do? Maintaining their childhood through what appears to be a tight group, in which each member bitches about another, and an exclusion of others. It's so bloody strange, these people and their ever-lasting childhoods.

Saturday, 19 November 2011


Sometimes I miss formspring. Ish. I mean, I took the whole thing way too personally, I should have enjoyed all the hate that I got (which, actually, probably only equated to less than a quarter of all I got in there and mostly then just involved people calling me an attention seeker. Snore) and reveled in all the attention I got, which I apparently crave, and the interesting questions people asked through that. I sound bitter, hahahaha. I do crave attention, but so does everybody, of course. But I've blogged about that before (hang on, and I'll find it.. and then, less directly, I spoke about it here, and so I'll not go into it again.

Instead, to tie everything here I've said, I'm going to do a formspring thing of asking for questions (which is also, of course, asking for attention, HAHAHAHAHA). I don't vlog, I'm all about the written word (and, to be honest, a lot of people have trouble understanding my accent, which is pretty gloriously northern) but most people I've seen who DO vlog seem to have dedicated, at some point, an entry to answering people's questions.

So I'm doing that, give me questions and I'll be as open as I possibly can. Even if you're a bit mean, pahahahaha. You can comment on this entry with them, or facebook me (Rebecca Condron, in case you didn't know my name. Oh wow). Now, don't leave me hanging, yeah? ;)

Thursday, 17 November 2011

Empty hours.

I'm not quite such a depresso fuck right now, it's amazing what a bit of time at home can do.

I have a bit of a pattern of burning myself out through the academic year, desperately filling the hours, for fear of slowing down and having nothing to do, and ending up in hospital over the summer. August 2008, July/August 2009, May/June 2010, August 2010, June/July 2011 and then October 2011- those are my psych admissions from the last few years, not including eating disorder ones. When I ended up in hospital last month, the doctor didn't get why I'd gone straight back to uni after having just got out of hospital in the summer, he told me that they usually recommend you take a few months out after that kind of a thing.

At the time, I thought that was moronic. For one thing, having nothing to do is not good for your mental health. It just isn't. It's better to be stressed because you have a lot to do than stressed because you have nothing. Trust me on that one- some sort of purpose, even if it's just to read some bloody, shitty, boringly dry chapter on Britain's involvement in Europe (can you tell what my current task is?) is better than trying to fill empty hours. I'd rather climb a mountain than be stuck staring at four walls. Especially when you know you're going to have months of those four walls, endless empty hours to fill. All that to fill is enough to drive anyone mad. Not withstanding the people with mental conditions anyway, I'm willing to bet all the teabags in my house that there's a higher incidence of job-seekers on anti-depressants than people in full employment. And then on a less general note, I wasn't in hospital with a short-term complaint. It wasn't like I had a breakdown and needed to take time out to rest and build myself back up mentally; with my conditions, that's not how it works.

So I came out of hospital last month, not really sure what to do. I didn't want to be at uni, I wasn't well enough and being so far from home (by train, it's between 5 and 6 and a half hours. And can cost £70+ one way) was horrible. But I didn't want to go home because I had nothing to do then, there would be even more empty hours. I didn't really realise all of this then, because I was too down to think very coherently, so I felt like I was looking at a long stretch of nothingness. I've only been home for less than 2 days and I'm here until Monday morning, but I already feel better. The hours are less intimidating when there's a routine, even if the routine is just around the tele and when my mum gets home from work. The hours are easier to fill here and it's so much easier to slow down, to resist burning myself out, when I'm not so scared of the empty hours.

Sunday, 13 November 2011

(Lack of) professionalism of doctors.

My mum told me that before I was ill, she'd never have questioned a doctor- their conduct or their professionalism or their opinion or anything. I don't know whether it's generational or maybe even if it's a bit of a class thing. Or if there's nothing to it but a society breeding a respect for the educated, the intelligent. The magic of those with a seeming power over life and death. I don't suppose it really matters, apart from to wonder how far it spreads; how much to take and when to question; is there a line that doctor's cross at some point, or do most people spend their lives never questioning?

My mum is a lioness, more so when I'm especially ill and she doesn't think I'm getting the best care (I got a letter the other week, saying she'd made a complaint about my 'mental health care' and I had NO IDEA what she was complaining about, hahaha). This means that if it was her who was ill or not getting the best care, or to whom a doctor has said something unprofessional, she'd be less inclined to push for better. It also meant then, that she's gone through most of her life never arguing or expecting answers. I think most people would probably be the same, especially of her generation and older- whether it's youthful health and vitality or, as I'm sure some people would say, lack of respect- I'm sure, or maybe I hope, the yoof are more likely to question.

My psychiatrist told me on Tuesday that I've 'filled out'. The conversation sort of went:
Doctor- you're looking really well.
Me- oh, thanks.
Doctor- yes, you've really filled out-
Me- what?
Doctor- yes, yes. We were worried about your weight when you were last in, but over the last few weeks you can really tell that you've gained wei-
Me- shut up. SHUT UP. Why are you even saying this?
Doctor- it's a good thing! Have I said the wrong thing?
Me- are you actually shitting me?

I'm not one of those people who are precious about being told that they look well. A LOT of people with eating disorders take massive offense to that and manage to twist it into meaning they're fat, especially if they know the person is saying it because they've become a more healthy weight. I'm not like that, though. I have no interest in looking ill. But having to explain to a psychiatrist that the patient who had a feeding tube 3 weeks previously doesn't want to be told they're looking bigger? At least though, she was genuinely trying to tell me I looked better- she said it in completely the wrong way and she should have known better than to say that to somebody in my position, but it was the best intentions, right? Maybe when doctors say the wrong thing, it's always in good faith?

Umm... No. Don't presume professionalism. The doctor who saw me a month or so back and took a look at me, my yellow-painted nails and my scars and said, 'self-harm, hmm? Most people in your situation tend to wear black nail varnish, but I suppose yellow is a more attention-seeking colour.' That doctor's words can't so easily be justified. I mean, it was funny, that didn't have quite the effect of being told you're, yanno, more of a fatty now than you were 3 weeks previously, but it most definitely brings up some questions about professionalism. I remember laughing in his face, but the nurses being horrified. And even then, nothing being said. What if I'd never been treated for mental health problems before? That sort of a thing could really have effected me and stopped me accessing further care. As it was, me having been in the system, it was entertaining, but how many people have actually been effected by his words? You know, now I type there are a lot of instances from other 'professionals' I can think of, especially some of the crap I've had from the police. I'll save that for another day.

As a general rule, I'm not too into lecturing on this platform- my experiences aren't uniform and what has helped or not helped me isn't necessarily going to help others. But if there's one thing I'll tell you, don't take doctors as infallible. If they say something that you're not happy with, or treat you with any less respect than you'd treat them with, you bloody well tell them. It's so easy, especially when you're being treated for things linked to mental health, for them to disregard you or to make you feel like you're wasting their time, but really what it comes down to is they're paid and employed to help those who need it. Whether you have a cut from slipping, or from a mental slip-up, they have no right to treat you any differently or to say things that make you feel that way.

Tuesday, 1 November 2011

Cigarettes and alcohol.

I don't want to keep whinging, but I have nothing else to say. So I going to type, I think, and hope for some sort of release. I don't know!

I got an appointment through yesterday, actually I got two. Dietitian on Monday and psychiatrist a week on Thursday. It's a little depressing that it's only been 6 days since I last saw a shrink and I'm back in next week, but of all the things that are getting me down, it's not the worst, ha. Although maybe it is, since mostly I have no idea what is getting me down. It's to look for a better anti-depresso that the shite I'm on now, but the thought of changing and then having to wait weeks for it to start working is almost more than I can get my head around, I just can't be arsed with anything. Including changing or not changing the pills and waiting for it to get better, or maybe not for anything to happen. What happens, right, if in six weeks nothing has changed? Having to change again and then wait longer. I need some guarantees. But anyway, that's the nuthut appointment. The dietitian appointment letter came with a 'food and fluid' chart that I'm supposed to fill in over the next week, which is a stress in itself given that I really now don't want to eat anything, to admit to having eaten anything, which is a little pathetic, but there you go. Admitting to eating isn't a massive issue of mine right now, but the thought of admitting to eat in, I don't know, an official capacity, is making me cringe.

What I said up there about needing guarantees is a pretty big problem right now. I'm a politics student, with no desire to be a politician. That's not a big thing, I don't think an especially bigger proportion of people with politics degrees actually become elected officials than owt else, but at least it would be something to aim for. It's not like studying nursing and having the final goal of being a nurse, or whatever. For a while, actually, whilst I was in hospital last I wondered if I wanted to be a nurse, then I realised that I really don't, it'd just be nice to know what I was training for. Now, I'm just floating around and going through the motions (and even then, just barely. I skipped a two hour lecture today, to lay in bed and feel like shite), to work towards... what? I don't know. I know this really sounds like I'm making big deal over nothing, since pleeeeenty of people don't know what they want to do, but I suppose the dwelling on the apparently insignificant is the nature of the beast, anyway.

Y'see, the way I'm feeling now, not knowing how everything is going to go is a massive problem. I feel like I should be out doing internships and getting experience and maybe trying to work out what the balls I want to do that way, but there are two problems with that. One is, I can't be arsed. I really can't. The other is, I'm not sure whether I'm actually even ALLOWED to, given that I'm not allowed to work. And guess what? I can't be arsed finding out. See a theme? And it's not just that. I have no motivation for owt else, either. I'm getting exhausted from the treadmill; the energy it takes to get up and get dressed alone is killing me. I just can't let myself be a depression stereotype because the next step is then hospital and I most definitely can NOT be arsed with that. The only guarantee I can make right now is that if I don't eat, I'll lose weight. I know how I'll feel physically. But that's a mind game I'm trying to steer away from, it's not a genuine option or summat I can afford to dwell on.

Friday, 28 October 2011


Ironically, I'm feeling worse now. I say ironically, since just a few days ago I was chirping about stability and since then I've been back on the roller-coaster. Less up and down and more like Alton Towers' Oblivion, though. Maybe I need to accept that I'm never going to be stable, not any time soon, anyway. I'm rubbish at knowing which battles to fight though, and right now I can't take this instability and so that tells me it's a battle to fight. But I can't, I don't know how. I don't have the... what's it. I dunno, my 'coping mechanisms', or whatever they like to call the shit we do, tend to just make it worse. It's all a bit of a pickle and I feel like shit.

I'm trying to get it together, because I hate people who don't try to help themselves- I don't wear my depression as a badge of honour. I'm desperate, trying to look longer term, try to make some goals or ANYTHING, I need something to aim for. I'm trying, but I feel like I'm losing the fight 'cause the truth is, there's nothing I want to do. Not now, not ever. There's nowhere I want to be. I keep wondering if I could do with a trip to Scunny (moot anyway, 'cause I can't afford it), but I don't want to be there much, either. I don't want to stay in bed festering, I can't cope with my own company right now, but going out is terrifying. I just don't know what to do with myself. And that's making everything hard- when you don't have an aim or ambition it's almost impossible to do anything.

I'm actually sitting here crying, I just don't know what to do. I'm so tired of feeling shit. Apart from the odd moment (at which point I seem to jump up and blog, I don't remember feeling positive and so it can't have lasted long), I don't think I've felt right for quite a while and I'm TIRED.

Tuesday, 25 October 2011

Freedom and stability.

Every day I feel a bit better than the day before, more stable and less FEKIN MENTAL. I think the rollercoaster I was on at the end of the week and the weekend can at least partly be down to withdrawals from all the lovely, lovely pills they pumped me full of whilst I was in hospital (I'm an annoying patient, definitely easier to just sedate me), which they then left me without when I earnt my wings. I'm getting back to myself, I know it.

It's strange readjusting to uni life, it's so different from home and although I remembered that, I sort of forgot it, too. It's been a long time, but because the summer was so odd and horrible, and I have entire weeks that I don't remember at all, it feels like it's been no time and forever, all at once.

Saturday, 22 October 2011

Freedom and instability.

Yesterday I got up and had a meeting with a psych nurse and felt fine. Then I went to town and didn't really feel a lot. Then I had a catch up with some of the lasses out of the flat next to mine, as I got ready to go out with my boyfriend and was happyhappyhappy. I saw my boyfriend and was sunshine. We started watching a shite film (Contagion- don't even get me started on how shite it is) and I thought about watching my raw flesh appear as a blade... well, yeah.

You seriously should see all the shite I have to get caught up on for uni. I panicked earlier and got myself depressed, walked around town wanting to cry because there were so many people and my senses were on overdrive, everything rushing and every sight and smell and sound stabbing me, because I was so raw and vulnerable. Like it was the first day of my life. I calmed down and decided I was going to become a builder (I forgot that I'm tiny)... and then I remembered I'm tiny and shit at everything apart from writing essays. THEN remembered that I'm seeing Ais-Ga in 2 weeks and I'm going to Sheffield in 4 weeks and then Germany in December and then it's Christmas and I have 3 different flavours of green tea in my cupboard. So I emailed my lecturers and now I'm drinking tea and eating pizza and everything is good, despite the fact that my head will be down the toilet in a few minutes.

And, of course, nothing can help this. I take uppers and downers and they stop me going completely nuts-oh on a DAILY basis, but all the doctors can really do is just tell me that it'll be therapy, llllllllllooooooonnnnnnnnnnnnngggggggggggggggggg term therapy, that'll fix it. Which since I've been diagnosed as FEKIN MENTAL for years now and am still FEKIN MENTAL is a bit depressing.

Thursday, 20 October 2011


I think this is the longest I've ever gone without blogging, apart from, yanno, the first 19 years of my life; things are very strange right now. I got sectioned (yes, yes, again. Third time in 3 months, horrif) a few weeks ago and then got out yesterday to be told that I'm lucky I'm not being thrown out of uni because of it. Or, rather, because of summat along the lines of my mental disorders/insanity being too great to be safely managed, officially. I'm still in, although they are looking at banning my alcofrolick arse from the alcohol selling places on campus (ie, anywhere that anybody ever goes. Bar those odd people at uni for the education). I cried and I screeched but now, right now, my mood is none too bad. You see, I'm going to be alright.

I realised a few things, as even I tend to sporadically, and I'm not feeling at all bad. See, I have a plan. I have a plan, no matter what they throw at me, even if that thing they throw is the statute. The book. Close the air holes and I'll claw some new ones- I think I may well be untouchable and if I'm not, I'll sure as hell make sure I am.

I'm going to be alright. Everything I felt and feared and wrote about in my last entry happened or is happening- I HAVE to be better or I'm out of the uni on my arse. But I knew that anyway, in myself, for my own sanity. It won't take them to throw me out, if mentally I can't handle it. But I need a chance to have a life, now and for the future, and I'll make sure nobody takes that from me. So, I have a plan.

(and I'll maybe write summat proper and less cryptic tomorrow, hahaha)

Wednesday, 28 September 2011

Back to uni.

I go back to uni, back to Essex, on Saturday and I have waaaaay too many feelings; nightmare-ish because as a general rule, I mock anybody with any feelings at all, hahahaha. But right now, I'm excited and a tiny bit melancholy and nervous and a bit more excited. So much has happened in the last year, so many ups and downs, and I think I'm maybe put off a little bit because I know how it's not easy. I mean, I'm not nervous about the usual leaving home stuff, because despite all the disasters last year, I know what I'm doing. I know what the work is like, I know what living with people is like. I know the pace of life at uni far better than I know the pace of life in Scunthorpe. But knowing and living is very different and it's not the uni lifestyle that bothers me. It's, unsurprisingly, the mental balance.

Realistically, I know that I just need to aim to do better this year (by year, I'm talking academically in this entry) than last, rather than expecting that I'll manage perfectly and won't have any police/hospital slip-ups. But that thought divides me a little because I actually think I did really well last year. I'm sure there are plenty who would scoff at that, or wonder how bad I was before, if last year was considered good. But considering the year before was spent mostly house-bound or in hospital and the year before that and before that and before that, for the last several years, wasn't a lot different, when you add up all the times I was in hospital/in the cells over the last year, it probably doesn't even add up to two months. And when I wasn't in, I was generally living.

So we'll see. It's a bit intimidating knowing that I have to aim to go forwards, to BE better, when I think I did as well as I could have, last year. But then, at least I have something to build upon. I'll be ok.

In other news, yesterday afternoon my number 1 Essex girl became a MILF. And I think the fact that in 3 days I get to meet her beautiful son accounts for a fair bit of my excitement, hahaha :D

Saturday, 24 September 2011

A week without scales.

There's a whole book of things doctors and laypeople, diagnostics and textbooks and articles, and those people on the streets who would have you believe they've been there and seen that, would have you believe that must be done and must be avoided and must be remembered and must be forgotten to meet the criteria for eating disorder recovery. Generally, they're very general. You know, you have to eat, but not too much. You must avoid avoiding 'bad foods'- in fact, you must dispel the idea of bad foods. Forget weight, but only as long as your weight is healthy. Forget calorie counting, but only as long as you're eating the correct count. Basically, emulate the ideal.

Let's ignore the fact that the ideal, like the norm, is a bit of a wide concept (which is actually an especially difficult thing to forget when you're in the position of attempting to emulate it. Attempting to emulate something you're not entirely sure of is a bitch for anyone, but because to end up with an eating disorder, you tend to be the obsessive type ANYWAY), it still gets more complicated. I believe in full recovery, but I'm not actually EXACTLY sure what I mean by full recovery. I believe in working towards maintaining a steady weight, by eating a steady and very similar amount, day after day. I believe that's possible. Do I believe that I'll be able to do that without daily monitoring of my weight and calories? Probably not. Suppose I need the scales and the calorie contents to ensure that they numbers are all as they should be, for the next however many years... does that mean that it's not full recovery?

Some would say that no, that's not recovery. I could show you a million supposedly inspirational pictures (usually black and white and involving girls with scene hair, hahahahaha) of people smashing scales. But this is an example of how general it all gets. For some people, not knowing is key to their recovery and that's lovely and perfect for them.

My recovery doesn't work this way.

I went away for a week, I spent some days and my dads and some days at my boyfriends and every day having to take benzos because of the lack of scales and the not knowing. Alright, I'm not recovered; I've still a long way to go, but whilst I'm fighting nobody can take away from me that I'm in the process, I'm on the journey, of recovery- despite my utter reliance on scales. Compared to where I was a few years ago, I eat a similar amount day-in-day-out and maintain a healthy weight, but I'm just as reliant on my scales for stability. I'm not sure how I feel about this, because it makes going away extremely difficult and I hope that I WILL eventually be able to go at least a few weeks without them, just for convenience. I won't, however, let that part of the generality take anything away from how well I KNOW I'm doing.

Sunday, 11 September 2011

The myth of the beautiful corpse.

There's one false idol that I fall for again and again... the imagery and the myth of the beautiful corpse. Let me explain. You read something and the words are so beautiful and they paint a picture that seems to capture everything you didn't even know you felt, sentiments like newly discovered colours, words you want to cover your skin with. A written portrait, maybe, of something completely mundane in an unexpected medium, or else something grand and sweeping about everything and nothing. I'm a pretentious fuck, I'm under no illusion and I won't attempt to deny it. But to give context (I don't want to add to the title of 'pretentious fuck' with 'patronising fuck' so bear with me), I think it's like a lot of people seem to get when they put on Capital FM- I think it's a more pretentious form of the compulsion to post Taylor Swift or Rihanna lyrics as a facebook status.

The type of words I fall for are almost always laced with something somewhat melancholy, I suppose it's no coincidence that those are the words I connect with. And at the end, there's always the realisation, then evidenced, that whoever wrote such beauty must have suffered. I'm not sure why, but it's almost always the case. I don't know whether beauty in this form is synonymous with suffering, but throughout literary history and, I suppose, art history, too (although art is not something I'm even going to pretend to know anything about. I can't even colour in the lines, which I'd like to pretend is due to a rebellious streak, but is in fact due to me being a bit crap at everything), the people creating such beauty as I'm writing about, are usually those who are suffering or who have suffered- the line at which it passes is a necessary blur in perpetuating the myth- usually at the mercy of a chemical imbalance; some sort of mental distress or other. And so this kind of suffering, addiction and compulsion and so forth, is suddenly ascribed value and everything is upside down. What was before a simple fight for better, to BE better and to GET better, becomes an argument between a melancholic beauty, an inexplicably arrogant idea of the world's glory only being realised by those suffering; and the world of the rest- the world of the grey. Simply, to not fight becomes a very real option.

Of course, it can't end well, it's not a fight that can ever be worn when put into those terms. You fight, you enter the grey. Theoretically, you could dance for so long in the melancholy, churning out beauty at the sacrifice of all that makes you human and then enter the grey later on, but that relies on a control akin to asking the tides to change. Or you become a martyr to the cause, a superior to those who chose not to suffer- a beautiful corpse unmarred by mediocrity.

But no, wait. This is the myth, the illusion, the falsity of the idol. Not all suffering produces beauty. In fact, from experience, all suffering produces in the moment is, well, suffering. The darkest days have no words and absolutely no beauty; any possible creativity comes later, after the fight, with hindsight, where the expected grey world becomes brighter than anything the suffering offered. But this is the danger of the myth and where I often fall- when the dark seems all encompassing, the credibility of a world where to suffer is to bring colour can't be brought into refute, for fear of exposing the lie. There are the times when to fight is harder than to accept the fate of the mythical beautiful corpse. When the superiority of the suffering ideal is needed to feed the self that is starved of worth.

Perhaps you thought this was obvious, but let me say it anyway... there is NO beauty in becoming a martyr to the cause of beauty. In any form, whatever beauty may have been amassed is automatically annulled by the loss of the most beautiful thing- life. Whether it's a temporary loss due to the suffering, or a permanent loss to becoming a 'beautiful corpse' (put now in inverted commas because I think I've disproved the notion), there can be no beauty. There's no glamour, no poetry, in any of it.

Wednesday, 7 September 2011


Oh God, it comes in waves. Sometimes I'm ok, sometimes I can handle my weight and I genuinely believe that all I need to do is to work out a way to maintain, and then I can be healthy and happy. And then sometimes, suddenly, it all seems to engulf me; I feel massive and all I want to do is tear my flesh off. I want nothing inside of me, not water nor food nor even vodka, I just want to wilt and to wither.

I'm afraid to leave, to go outside, but I don't want to be contained, either. I want to be away, but I'm terrified of the exposure of leaving this cocoon. I want to clean, I want to be clean, but the thought of facing my body in order to do this is enough to bring on the fast-breathed terror. And I want everything around me clean, as though to have everything environmental clean is to clean all that is internal. I feel so dirty. I feel so fat.

But it's not just that. Every thought, every typed or said word; every gesture, movement, I make... I don't know how to word how I feel about myself right now. To put it mildly, I'm annoying myself. I'm trying too hard, I'm over-compensating with people I hardly know, to attempt to make up for it, in a kind of 'please-don't-hate-me-because-I-have-enough-hate-myself' kind of a way, and to make up for how I'm feeling like I just can't connect properly.

It's no coincidence that this goes hand-in-hand with the waves of fat feeling- I can't separate any negative feeling from the feeling of fat. If I'm sad or mad or just generally a bit of a mardy bum, that translates in my head into feeling fat. Besides the whole mardy thing (I can do mardy VERY well, God bless my mum) I don't really stay angry or anything like that for long, before the feeling of fat takes over and whatever I was angry at is replaced by anger at my thighs or whatever. I'm not sure what the feeling is now, the original feeling, the one that the fat is masking. Or maybe there isn't another feeling. Maybe I just really do need to lose some weight.

I wish I could turn myself off for a bit.
No, I wish I could have a holiday from myself.

Tuesday, 6 September 2011

'Dieting' for uni.

First of all, let me just say the word 'diet' doesn't sit comfortably with me, not in this context- there's a very big difference between a diet and a disorder, more of an emotional connection- a compulsion, if you will. But what else to call it though, how else to explain to you? I promised myself I wouldn't do this, but here I am. Restricting so that I don't start my second year of uni feeling like the fat girl. I don't know why it bothers me so much, but I just hate the thought of meeting people for the first time and having a bit of chub on me, so here we go. I'm chugging the Pepsi Max and munching on pills and altogether being a complete and utter turnip. Being and doing everything I worked hard to avoid. I did the same thing last year though, and the months between October and January were my healthiest, the months where my eating disorder was most under control so in the mid-term I'm not too worried. It's just a bit annoying now because when I don't eat I feel like I'm failing myself, destroying some sort of longer-term future, and when I eat I feel like I'm failing myself in the moment.

My mind is pretty much taken up by the battle between the disorder and, I don't know, I suppose myself. But that's a positive thing, I think. The fact that the battles even exists is a progress from when the disorder WAS me, rather than now when I can differentiate, even if I'm struggling right now to actually fight. But maybe that's just my eternal optimism, 'cause it's actually just doing my head in.

Friday, 2 September 2011

21 (and post birthday blues).

It was my birthday yesterday, and it was lovely. Well, I had about 4 birthdays really- a day in Colchester castle with MG and Willis, dinner with my dad and step-mum, a day out in Magna (hahaha, google it. It's a disused Yorkshire Steelworks made into a kids' science museum, ever appropriate) and then an impromptu family party last night. Gooood stuff. I'm currently in the middle of a sugar coma/hangover from all the crap I've consumed though, hahahaha. The rule about there being no calories on birthdays is excellent, until the day or so after when they suddenly creep up, whooops.

I think I wrote maybe this time last year, about post-birthday blues. About how a birthday isn't a celebration of your birth, not for yourself, but more a marked day every year, a day where you actually chronicle your actions in a way you don't do on less significant days- it's an anniversary of so much more than one day, it's an anniversary and a reminder of the good and bad from years gone by. The specific day is symbolic of the weeks and months around it, in this way. I was born on the first of September, 1990. But what I remember is where I was and how I felt on the 1st of September every year since about 1994 or '5, whereas I'm not sure exactly what I did on, for example, the 18th of June every year. To the people present at your birth (or, even if not in the room for it, remember the day you entered the world), it IS an anniversary of that one day, they're more likely to remember where they were on that day in that year, than where they were on that day in others. But given how you don't remember your birth but remember more the celebrations years later or whatever, I don't suppose many people dwell much on the day they were born itself.

So this is all fine and good, mostly. In fact, at the risk of contradicting myself, I'd say most people maybe DON'T dwell so much, not consciously at least, on previous birthdays because there's something about us, maybe societal or psychological, that makes us dwell more on the bad, I think. Given that your birthday is supposed to be a day to celebrate and so, chances are and to put it simplistically, each anniversary is part of a vague mental collage of happy memories, I suppose people don't think so much. But there's always a bit of, 'oh, when I was a kid, on my birthday...' or maybe a thought about how drunk you were on your 16th or whatever- always a memory.

I have struggled on previous years over memories of previous birthdays. How I know my weight from every 1st of September from 1999, to the present. The birthdays spent in terror of that weight; of having to eat cake; of having to do the happy, social thing when I'd rather stay in bed and not dwell on another year wasted, always the waste and the seeming lack of progress.

But this year was different. I'm happy. Well, right now I'm feeling huge and my head hurts and I feel grubby and generally shitty. But the 1st of September 2011 was not a sad day, it wasn't a day to lament a wasted year, or anything like that- in fact, it was lovely because 21 feels so fresh. I've had blips, time that adds up to months on hospital and the police station, over the last year. I've had horrific days, nights, weeks, months. I've wanted to die. But I haven't. In fact, I actually lived, truly lived... and now I'm 21 I feel no different, of course I don't. And this year will also have blips, I know it. I KNOW it- that's what's reassuring, I'm not expecting any great eureka moment as I did when I turned 13, 16, 18 and 20 and I think that's the eureka in itself. Yesterday was a cause to think about previous 1st of Septembers, but this year there wasn't the feel of it being out of my control, of a lack of progress. I AM better than I have been. My eating disorder has been better this year than ever before; I've mostly managed to live away, mostly independently; I've taken responsibility and I will continue. More progress, page turned.

Monday, 29 August 2011

Things lost, things gained.

I've learnt a lot of lessons about friendship, over the years where I truly believed myself worthy of only the 'friendship' of disorder. Sometimes friendships end and that's fine, it really is. Sometimes the end of a friendship is to be mourned, sometimes you just have to be glad for there was and know that you still have someone you could have a 5 minute chat with if you bumped into them in the supermarket, even if the real friendship is gone. The worst though, the ones that I feel cheated over, are the ones that ended down to the chaos of the disorder. The nights cancelled because I couldn't leave my house, peal myself from my bedroom floor. The days cancelled to be spent between the toilet and the scales. It's not that I resent the people, because there are two halves to a friendship and for years I struggled to maintain my half. But I'm resentful of the end, friendships too intense. That I can't just have the regular girly relationships, where you complain about boy problems and watch shitty films- the problems I've created for myself eclipse anything external, I suppose. I feel ancient compared to so many people my age. And I know, I'm aware that this is more my fault than anything, this isn't me self-pitying, this is me resenting the disorder for another thing taken. If only it was just about a bit of an extreme diet, eh?

Separate to this, something I never even thought about. Hurting me, angering me now, is what I think I've learnt this weekend about some- the people who used me to show their heroism, to do their bit for charity, whatever. To brag about their good deeds and to put down the people I love, to passively attack the ones I know love me, when they were hurting themselves over my being in hospital. The people who say that they will be there, but then never come through when they need to. The friendships that, at the risk of sounding overly harsh, are lies.

But then on the other hand, it's alright... I know who my friends are. I am in absolute no doubt as to who I can truly trust and who I know won't be angry or resentful themselves, on those times when I need carrying. And I suppose that's one thing gained, for all the others lost; I know everybody says it, but I seriously have the best friends. The illness weeds out those who can't cope, the ones who can't be your closest support and again that's not something I could ever, ever resent people for- people should be obliged not to, yanno, be cunts and that, but I'd hate somebody to feel obliged to be my friend, just because I am, I have been, ill. I just wish it was so simple, though. That people would walk away, rather than... Humph!

Saturday, 27 August 2011

Thank-you, body.

A valuable lesson about not dieting. I've spent the last week eating A LOT, LOT, LOT of shite and I've only gained a kilo. Cheers, body! I mean, I want the kilo gone and I plan on having it gone over the last few days... but better one kilo than the 3 or 4 I was expecting, haaaaaaaa.

In other news, I went down to Essex yesterday and packed up my summer room. I shouldn't read too much into it, but it's made me feel hollow. When I moved into that room, at the start of summer, I thought I was making such a good decision- to be down where my friends and my doctors were. I thought I was being sensible and I thought... Well. That to keep my life as stable as possible, keep my mental state stable. I should have seen the signs, of course- my mental state wasn't stable last term, anyway. With hindsight... But anyway, that's a whole other thing and I reck I'll just worry about it next year when I'm planning my summer.

I do kind of feel like I've failed, though. I guess I don't really need to say that the summer was NOT supposed to go how it did- I don't suppose many people plan on spending so long in hospital. I've done nothing this summer, but be ill. Which is bothering me not only because everyone seems to have DONE things and to have seen things or at least just had fun, but also because I haven't even done anything to build up my CV, which really needs some work. I've done NOTHING, but be ill. And I wasn't supposed to be moving out for another few weeks, but with all that's happened, I've just sort of been grounded (not in a naughty child sort of a way, there's nobody grounding me themselves. Just, yanno) in Scunthorpe. I have no foothold in Essex, but I feel like I've grown out of Scunthorpe, I just don't belong anywhere. I'll be back at uni in 5 weeks, it's just 5 weeks of feeling so unsettled, I suppose I just need to remember that. Ooft.

But anyway, my boyfriend is coming on Tuesday and then I have plans (it's my 21st on Thursday, feel free to buy me a drink, hahahaha) and so at least I have that. I'm lucky, I'm very lucky.

Wednesday, 24 August 2011

Bargaining with a tsunami.

I am not fat.
I am not fat.
I am not fat.
I am not fat.
I am not fat.
I am not fat.
I am not fat.
I am not fat.
I am not fat.
I am not fat.

I feel huge. The number on the scales is fine; it's the number I worked out long ago as being the lowest I can maintain whilst still looking healthy (oh, and whilst still filling a 32D- I have really amazing boobs; amazing even despite boobs being sacks of fat, which is an 'orrific thought. I'd show you a picture, but one of you little tinkers might have it resurface when I'm PROPERLY grown up and important). I don't want to look unhealthy, I don't see the point in advertising disorder. But I have such an intense craving for loss, such an unexplainable desire to rot and to waste and to stop trying to shut a dam on the disease, to open wide my hands to the sky, instead of trying to build against all forces of a malicious and belligerent god.

I keep trying to haggle with the disorder, to cut a deal that involves just losing a few kilo, or just seeing what I can lose over a few weeks. Those of you who've been here know how laughable an idea attempting to cut a deal with the beast is and those of you who haven't... imagine bargaining with a tsunami. But what else to do?

Saturday, 20 August 2011

Free dumb.

Well, I'm out. I'm free and out, finally. I look a mess, a total mess, although I feel a damn sight better than I have in a while. My arms, which I clawed to buggery over the last 4 weeks (I tried explaining myself and my marks to a nurse, through the analogy of a battery hen pecking its feathers out, but she didn't get me and I remembered how full of shit I am), are covered in a zig-zag of purple welts, interspersed with thick, black scabs. Maybe it wouldn't look so bad if I wasn't so fair, but my skin is so pale that any little mark, be it pen or dirt (no matter what I'm doing, I tend to manage to get really grubby, I think it's a northern thing. Or maybe a growing-up-on-a-council-estate thing. But whatever; I always, always, always look grimy) or, like now, superficial scratches that barely broke the surface, are like a flashing neon sign.

It's not just the marks I made deliberately- if deliberately is the right word, the right sentiment, given that I was so feral- there's also the dire condition of my hair, the dullness of the skin even that which is not marked and the shrunken look of my body. I'm not desperately underweight, but because I didn't eat or drink for the first 3 weeks or so of my incarceration, my weight dropped too quickly and I look like I zipped my skin off, jumped into a hot tumble drier and then zipped the skin back on. The not eating? Not summat I'd recommend, incidentally. Besides the way not eating seems to strip you of some level of humanity, preventing independent thought and stripping you to the state of an animal in a famine, I ended up having an NG tube (those are the ones that go up your nose and down to your stomach, to feed you forcibly) put in a few days after I'd managed to break my nose and the bruises from all the IVs I had to have are only just fading. I look a state.

I need to take some time to get myself back together. I don't feel TOO BAD mentally, I've been put on a new anti-depressant and I'm starting to feel the effects, but physically I'm tired. I'm exhausted. All whilst I was in hospital, they were telling me I needed to learn to relax, that was key amongst all my problems. And as loathe as I am to admit it (I need to stop thinking of mental health staff as The Enemy, my adult sense knows that. But together my mental disorders and my childlike indignation at being forcibly detained are struggling to come to terms with this right now, after the weeks of projecting anger away from the diseased parts of my being and on to the people charged with my care), I do need to learn to relax. I think the next few days are key somehow. How I handle myself now, the week post-release, is going to determine at least how the 6 weeks before i go back to Essex for my second year of university. I don't need to gain or lose weight, instead I need to healthily maintain. 1500 calories, no vomiting, at least some activity a day- that needs to be the aim, I think. We'll see.

Wednesday, 17 August 2011


I'm miserable. I'm still in hospital... well not literally in RIGHT THIS SECOND because I have a bit of leave, but I'm still a patient and I'm still being watched. They've told me that as long as I obey certain conditions (compliance with meds, no alcohol etcetc) they'll release me on Friday and I KNOW that's only 2 days away but I'm so, so desperate. It's been almost 4 weeks, in psych in Colchester and Scunthorpe, but it feels like a lifetime. Which is strange, in a way, since I don't even remember a lot of this last month or so, especially the time in Colchester- they've had me on some insane medication whilst they messed around and found me a better anti-depressant, sedatives and everything.

All I want is to be by myself.

When you're in hospital, especially on a psych ward, you're never truly alone. You might be in a room, with the door shut, but they can always see you. I know that sounds insanely paranoid, but it's true and I hate it. I'm constantly trying to get the feeling of being watched out of my system, confined to my room in there, with books. But it's making me sick, physically ill, and I JUST WANT TO BE ALONE. The thought of having to be back in by 9am tomorrow makes me want to cry.

Sorry, this is so whingey, I haven't any pretty words. I keep dreaming about swimming- sometimes in open water and sometimes with whales in confined places. I don't know. Maybe I'll have something more interesting to say in... oh, 44 hours when I'm officially free.

Friday, 12 August 2011

Almost a joke.

On Tuesday I had the bright idea of slitting my wrists. Down for death, across for attention and TRUST ME I get enough attention for my hair and terrible dress sense. Not going to go into Wednesday, just that ONCE AGAIN I'm in the nuthut.

Fukmalyf,I could kill for some vodka.

Tuesday, 9 August 2011


I ended up with another psych admission. Not yet 21 and 4 admissions under my belt, the thought makes me feel sick. As does the thought that I shouldn't be out yet; why did they release me from my section (oh yes, a real 'Detainment Under the Mental Health Act'. Brilliant) so unexpectedly, after 2 weeks that involved a nose broken, eyes blackened, lumps raised and scratches etched, all so deliberately...?

I don't feel safe.

Friday, 22 July 2011

Part 2.

The thing I was afraid of happening again, happened. The blog entry never did have a part two, but alas the situation did.

I know you're angry with me, and I'm sorry. I really am. I know it seems so simple; the things that I should and shouldn't do to avoid yet another of those nights, easily avoidable? But it's not. It's not. I'm sorry, I didn't want it to happen again, either... But I don't have an excuse and I won't insult you by trying to come up with one. I WILL make it up to you, but right now I just need to know you won't walk away from me. I know you don't need this and I'm hard work... God, guilt. Ooft.

Friday, 15 July 2011

Not too shabby.

I'm not feeling too bad. I can still feel the black dogs, they're out there somewhere, but they're less insistent- their hunger is diminished somewhat and they're not snarling at my feet. I think it's because I know I'm leaving. Leaving Scunthorpe and this dread, for some time in Essex. Then Bedford. Belfast. And probably some time in Coventry and hopefully Berlin before the end of the summer. I always thought I was quite settled, I needed to be grounded, but I've learnt that I'm really not- I need constant movement; I need to be in flight always, to know that everything is not going to stay the same. I think it's my optimism. Through everything, even when I think I'm certain that I think nothing is getting better, I am an optimist. If I was brave enough, I'd acknowledge, in those moments, that things can get better but sometimes the fight it'd take to improve matters seems too great and it's easier to swear defeat. Sometimes, things are so bad and I can't see more than 5 minutes into the future. I'm afraid to look further, to think of any possibilities besides the present, because I feel too stuck. That's it, that's exactly what this all is- I'm terrified of being stuck, whether physically or otherwise, because that signals that things can't get better and that's against everything I live for, any hope.

I was budgeting earlier today- working out how I'm going to afford getting to my boyfriend's and then how I'm going to have any money when I go to Ireland in a few weeks and then, as an after thought, how I'll pay my next lot of rent. Then I got depressed because there will always be a bill that needs paying. I'm adult and, all going to plan, I'll be an adult for a long time. I feel like I've been an adult for as long as I can remember, but these are new responsibilities, aside from the adult pressures I always felt. And that's one thing I mustn't try to run from.

But I don't think running away is always necessarily a bad thing, sometimes you have to run because attempting fighting is nonsensical. If a car is hurtling towards you, you get out of the way, you don't stand there- you can't win that fight. And that's ok. I've learnt that confrontation for confrontation's sake is pointless- I can get away, I can keep in more or less constant flux now, and so that's my plan. I can't shake the feeling that something bad is coming, but as long as I just keep moving...

(have I ever told you how I rarely sit still? ;))

Friday, 8 July 2011

A mustard skirt.

I just bought a mustard coloured, knee-length jersey pencil skirt. It sounds horrific, but you'll find one of these days that pretty much all of my clothes are pretty nightmare-ish, it's howz I likez 'em. The thing with it is, it's like a second skin and j'ai l'horreur de mes cuisses. But shit kids, I look fit as owt in it. I have nowt really more to say about it, I just wanted to brag about how sexy I look in mustard pencil skirts.

I got my uni results yesterday, 66%. So a 2:1. I'd have been disappointed if, when everything was going peachier last year, I'd have been told that I'd get a 2:1 for the year. But as it is, I suppose it's alright- there's not a lot I can do about it now, anyway. Considering how ill I've been and how little work I did (I revised a few hours per exam. I'm starting to think I'm a genius ;)) and everything, IT'S ALRIGHT. Just means I'll have to get myself a first next year, at least this year doesn't really count for owt.

Wednesday, 6 July 2011


2 months without them and I come home and are a slave to them again, within a week? But whilst I'm steadily losing weight, I can't bring myself to care. It's better for my body than all the vom'? Better to lose steadily than to go up and down so drastically? I feel better in myself, more likely to go outside? Calmer Condron, ooft.

Ohhh, I need to stop rationalising what can't be rationalised.

Monday, 4 July 2011

Black cloud.

I have the biggest black cloud hanging over me right now. I don't know what's up, I really don't. I don't know whether it's a physical (coming to terms with the fact that OH, ALRIGHT I may be a touch alco-dependent, as my shrink likes to think. But honestly, just a touch- I'm not quite the raving alcoholic that I like to think of myself as, when I'm feeling ESPECIALLY dramatic) or whether it's mental- just me being an angsty fuck, even more of an angsty fuck than usual; I'm awful at working out my feelings. I'm... I'm not exactly depressed, but I'm incredibly anxious and that's keeping me bitchy and snappy and pretty much always close to tears.

I don't know, it might just be the empty days I need to fill here in Scunthorpe, before I go back to Essex in a few weeks.

Gawwwwwd. I need to relax and I'm failing miserably at it. I make out that I'm dead lazy, but I'm such a faffer that I'm constantly on the go or have a project or SOMETHING. Relaxing makes me nervous. But my body is so tired. The results of my blood tests from last week came back with a bit of a warning- not as perfect as they usually are. Not by a stretch. No matter how ill I got, whatever I did to it, my body bounced back. But right now it's tired and doesn't reeeeeeally want to humour my disorder. Body versus disease, dear me.

Thursday, 30 June 2011

A night and day in a cell.

I've been trying to think how to structure this one, because it's quite a... I'm not sure. I'm not sure how I feel about it or where to even start to answer that, to crack my indomitable defenses. The bones? A night that has happened a hundred times. Drunk. Unconscious. An ambulance. Feral fear. Police, for the primitive. And then, from there... they, well. They weren't all that nice. I am not, oh God believe me I'm not, a spoilt brat. I wish I was. The nuthut refused to take me (too mental for the mental ward, of that I am proud) and so I ended up in a cell, under yet another Section 136. Cuffs, restraints, constant supervision. Released only due to my expert workings of the system, the scripted words I know will prevent a longer lasting 'detainment under the Mental Health Act' than just a Section 136. And even then, I had to fight hard for this freedom; each word deliberate, each response measured.

Every time somebody asks me how I feel about it, mostly I just say sore. And I do, I am sore. My arms are so swollen from 18 hours cuffed behind my back that I have permanent pins and needles in my hands, and I can't lift my hands higher than my head or to do up my bra strap or anything. I can't drink without a straw because I can't tip the glass. My legs, restrained for hours, so many hours, are black and blue and keep mutinying and refusing to hold me. I'm stiff, so stiff; I feel about 80.

You know, I think that sums it up; how do I feel? I feel 80. Mentally, physically. I feel like I've lived too much and then not much at all, like 80 years in a single room, with just a small window out into the world. Watching, always watching. I've seen too much and I know too much and I have so much horror within me. I was asked by a social worker yesterday, not long before I was released, whether I was always so chirpy, whether I felt negatively about the night- how could a person in my situation be so happy. Isn't that funny? Sweet. I don't know whether I'm happy or not, the outside seems to suck all the sunshine, I'm...

The bones, the bones. Thinking about it's draining me, I'm sorry I really do have a lot more to say, I know this, the story and all the garbled half sentences, isn't at all interesting but I have so much to say that I need to type out. Some bad, some surreal, some genuinely funny. But this is harder to write than I thought it'd be and I think I need to leave this here. So think of this as half a two parter and I'll think, hope, that the night itself wasn't.

Sunday, 26 June 2011

A letter to the Rebecca Condron of 18 months ago.

Hi, Rebecca. Condron. Condom.

I'm a little bit drunk. In fact, I'm pretty damn drunk. But come on, what did you expect? OK, boxing day, 2009.

I want to give you a hug. You deserve the biggest hug I can give you, because Christmas was hard, so hard. You didn't need to spend so long trying to throwing your guts up yesterday, you really didn't. You should have enjoyed it like they all wanted you to, but that's ok. You didn't do anything wrong and nobody is cross at you. It's just sad you're suffering. Those tears, after you worked so hard to eat Christmas dinner, all that pain... it's OK, it's all ok. You didn't NEED to do it but it's alright that you thought you needed to, it's alright.

You've got a hard 9 months ahead of you, but don't let that scare you. You'll be in hospital and when you're out it'll feel strange because that'll end up the occasion, as against being 'on the inside', but that's ok. You'll be inside but that's when you'll learn to fight. They'll say that that's what's going to save you, to teach you, but they're wrong. You're going to hate it but you'll take something away from it. Not what you 'should', not a life of freedom... but knowledge that it's you, and only you, that can do this. The inside will hinder you, so it'll seem- it'll make you worse. But that's exactly what will teach you to fight- the fight against what they think you should do, and the knowledge that'll come of yourself and how strong you are.

Rebecca Condron, you hold the entire world. You have more strength than any of this will let you believe and far more than anybody could know. It's going to be hard. You're going to slip. But you will never, ever, fall. Not this way, anyway. You'll fall in love and you'll let someone fall in love with you. You'll be happy and you'll be sad- and you'll let yourself feel that, which is the biggest thing.

Love, always love

Wednesday, 22 June 2011

Pros and cons of being Condom-Condron, today.

Can I start a pros and cons list with a con? Is that a bit pessimistic of me? I'M ALLOWED TO BE PESSIMISTIC, I'M MENTALLY ILL.

I'm on my period. AGAIN. My last period was a fortnight ago, the one before that was about three and a half weeks ago.

Periods mean health and an empty womb.

My bank balance is currently £995.70 overdrawn, meaning all I have in the world to play with is £4.30.

I'm due £240 benefits any day and £1500 refund from my accommodation.

I need to tidy my room...

...because some bloke is coming tomorrow to bring me a free laptop and lots of other goodies, and to set it all up.

I'm a bit of a globster.

I'm a globster with incredible boobs.


Saturday, 18 June 2011


It's just come out that my cousin is being bullied. And I am not at all surprised. Emily is nine years old and the loveliest, most awkward creature you could ever come across. Both literally and metaphorically, she'll rush head first into everything and anything- you sort of have to tuck your toes away when Emily is about and make sure that you're not wearing any breakable jewellery. Make sure you're wearing clothes that you can dance wildly in and that you are completely rested, not a tiny bit fragile (ie not even mildly hungover) and ready to be a vampire or a witch or... anything that amazing mind can come up with. You also have to be prepared for unadulterated affection and the purest, often misguided, awkwardly expressed but completely beautiful attitude to everything. She's not going to do anything delicately and there's not a chance she's going to do it gracefully, because she has far too much raw passion and energy. Without doubt, the most beautiful person I have ever met.

And so, of course, Emily is being bullied.

Lack of surprise does not take anything from the anger. I wasn't telling you about Emily to make the bullying sound worse or, on the other hand, to make it sound inevitable. Because bullying is bullying and no child deserves that. But, ohhh. And when MG was telling me about it, I was sitting waiting to be told that she was being called fat. And I wasn't waiting for long. Not because Emily is fat (she's completely and utterly normal, healthy little girl size. Skinny in the way kids are, but not even close to under or over weight), but because little girls know how to attack each other and they all 'know' that fat is bad. How the hell they know this, how the hell I knew this, how the hell WE knew this, at that age, is a question I couldn't even begin to answer, it's insane. But by the time we turn ten, it's something we all seem to know.

Sometimes I get so scared, I feel like I'm waiting for Emily to get an eating disorder. I've said this to MG many a time, I feel like I'm just sitting and waiting. Waiting for the bones and the cuts and the secrecy- that beautiful mind turned in on itself. It's almost like watching myself and not having a clue how to change it. I know that I'm getting ahead of the whole situation, Emily is NOT me and she's had a very different first 9 years of her life to the first 9 years of mine. But that mind, that beautiful, powerful mind, could do so much- positive or negative- and that's incredible to behold, terrifying.

Thursday, 16 June 2011

A trip to the shrink.

I saw my psychiatrist on Monday. I see him every three months, so since my last appointment, things have slipped- my eating disorder has well and truly flaired its ugly head again and I seem to have become a raging alcoholic, it's all good. I wasn't really that nervy or owt because I know how the system works and I knew he'd not do owt, but still, I've had, ooft- maybe 3 or 4 hospitalisations, couple of assessments for Section and two Section 136s, so I was a bit curious to see what he'd say, hahaha. He started with the basics, asking if I was hearing voices and all that kind of stuff; whether or not I fancy killing myself, blahblahblah. We then had a bit of an odd exchange. At least I thought it was odd, let me know what you think...

Doctor- are you vomitting very much? How many times a week?
Me- A week? Dunno. At least 10 times a day though, maybe up to about 20.
Doctor- Can you tell me your weight?
Me- Rather not.
Doctor- OK, that's fine. Have you lost weight?
Me- I've fluctuated A LOT.
Doctor- Right, alright then. Well I have a letter here from your therapist, saying that if your eating disorder gets more severe again, she wants you referred into the NHS eating disorder services. But obviously you're fine now so we won't do that this time.

I know for a fact that the letter he had ACTUALLY was telling him to refer me into the services BECAUSE I'd got severe again. But because I'm not desperately underweight, to him I am fine. But is vom'ing that much really no big? I didn't ever really see the point in referring me forward, 'cause I like my therapist and I don't think starting again with another is going to suddenly cure me, just 'cause the other service is for more severe disorders- I've been treated by people whose job is to monitor the worst and generally hated them all. But, yanno, it got to me.

Sunday, 12 June 2011

Summer ball.

My uni's summer ball was amazing. Think fairground rides and games, alcohol, Scott Mills, tacky music, good music, food, friends and... yeah, dead lovely. Looking through the pictures I look- hmm. Not as big as I feared but not as, yanno NOT BIG as I'd wished. I'm trying not to obsess because, for once, I had so much fun without needing to be ridiculously drunk. I can't say I felt pretty, but I didn't feel TOO hideous either. And I'll take that, I'll definitely take that.

My dress, all spinny:

Me and (you can just about see) my boyfriend, Daryl.

Sadie and I, pretending to be housewives.

Sadie and I, missing the fact that you're meant to look at the camera, hahahaha.

Me and Mark being just, well, Me and Mark...

Monday, 6 June 2011

Last exam tomorrow.

I'm tired of feeling guilty over not revising. I wonder what I'll find to feel guilty over next, aha. And it's my uni's Summer Ball on Saturday which I'm looking forward to and dreading, all at once. I'm looking forward to getting dressed up and seeing everyone (apart from Willis, I'm actually gutted that she's not coming but I completely understand why she isn't) and dancing and EVERYTHING. But that's sort of worrying me. Please, PLEASE just let me feel a bit more comfortable in my skin on Saturday. I'm not going to beg a higher power to make me pretty, but it'd be nice not to feel grotesque (I'm directing this at whichever god fancies listening, I'm not fussy who picks it up). I just want one night. Please, just one night of not being grotesque.

Saturday, 4 June 2011

Classification and diagnonsense.

It's so easy to form your behaviours around what they tell you is wrong with you. I'm currently supposed to have 'a history of severe eating disorder', which isn't too bad a way of wording it, because it sort of defies classification. It's not like when they told me my diagnosis had changed again from Bulimia to Anorexia again and I suddenly felt like I could never eat again, just so I could justify it. I feel a bit silly now because my weight is healthy, but my last diagnosis was Anorexic and because I had a feeding tube last summer and that's at the top of my notes, doctors always look surprised that I'm not emaciated.

Sorry that I'm fat.

My therapist thinks I'm getting worse and that I need to be monitored by more services. Basically, I reckon they're just waiting for me to slip further so they can hospitalise me again. And I know this should piss me off and make me want to prove the point that I don't NEED hospitalisation, that I can do this, I can get better... but it doesn't. It makes me feel like I need to match this idea that they have. But then, I am definitely sliding back. So maybe blaming them and saying I'm trying to match their classification of me is just way to pass responsibility- I just can't work out how this all works.

Friday, 27 May 2011

Exhaustion and exams.

I'm mid exam period, which is all well and good because exams don't really stress me and I'm pretty sure I'll pass the year. Which, since this is my first year, is all I need to do. But I don't WANT to just pass. This is where my bottom lip comes out and I stamp my foot, passing for me is basically failing. Wait, I know that's a paradox. I mean JUST passing, as opposed to doing well, is all but failing. Worse than failing, much worse. Usually, when I know I'm not going to do amazingly at summat, I go out of my way to fail, rather than to be average or whatever. But I'm trying to keep my little barneys under control this exam period, because I need to cool it a bit on the all or nothing attitude, I'm doing my head in.

I'm so drained at the moment. I'm not really sure why, but I feel like the treadmill is going just a touch too quickly at the moment (anyone who has ever seen me attempt to run will REALLY appreciate that metaphor) and I'm TIRED. I'm tired of working so hard and getting nowhere- I really need a good (ha, 'good') binge sesh right now, I'm telling myself that after that I'm going to lose as much weight as I can before my uni's summer ball in two weeks, but of course I'm fighting it. And of course I feel shit and tired and fat and dirty. So, so dirty, just... ooft. Tired, tired, tired.

(Well, my tiredness is AT LEAST PARTLY because I went out last night and then got up early this morning so that I could revise for my exam tomorrow, so I won't make my current predicament into summat deep, when it was just really that I like vodka. But yanno. I'm exhausted)

And I'm not feeling very positive at the moment, big fat apologies

For all I said in my last entry, God. I've lost the fight. I thought I had it after that, I thought I was back on track. But it's never that simple, never. I'm tired of obsesssing and of having to work so hard just to be able to live a life that vaguely resembles normality. Do you see the pattern? I don't LIKE the idea of normality, of average. I want to be incredible and amazing and instead I'm fighting to try and be normal. So maybe I'm losing a bit of motivation, maybe I don't have the strength or the belief in what I'm doing, what I was doing, what I SHOULD be doing right now. I'm not sure what to do or what I even want to do. And I have it playing on my mind that my therapist thinks I'm slipping and so has referred me to another service. Which is fair enough, I get that she has a responsibility. But I'm really, REALLY sick of how, whenever I slip, I get fobbed off to another service, I get pushed along because I'm too much like hard work. If I'm too much like hard work for somebody who sees me once a week and is entirely detached, I'm most definitely too much like hard work for myself, when I have to live with myself, yanno?

I could just do with a rest, I think.

Friday, 20 May 2011

To love and to be loved.

I found myself back in hospital yesterday. Last June, I can remember being laid on a hospital bed, so exhausted that any form of conscious thought physically hurt, just sort of waiting for something, somebody, to bring me to either life or death. Purgatory. And yesterday? Although I've done less damage to my body (severe dehydration from this week's antics, but that was really it) recently than I'd done a year ago, I just... God. Exhaustion. Confusion.

But as the saline hit my blood stream, the exhaustion became anger. Somebody hurt me a few weeks ago. Not intentionally and in a way that would probably not have bothered me if not for a million separate events in my history. Somebody hurts me and so I respond by hurting myself? Where's the logic? It's like a country dropping a nuclear bomb that destroys half your country, and you taking 'revenge' by dropping another that destroys the other half of your country. So no, fuck that shit.

I let my guard down and let the disorder back in, these last few weeks. I'm not calling it a relapse because there's a certain permanence about that word. I'm not calling it a blip, because that's too flippant for a period that ended with me collapsing and being taken to hospital by ambulance. It was just a BAD TIME. But it's sort of renewed something in me. I will NOT do this again. I want to be strong. More than anything, I want to be strong. Laying in the hospital bed, wishing I at least had the energy to cry over the whole situation, brought back the feeling I had last June that all the hospitalisations since then just haven't. Hopelessness in the situation, combined with a hopefulness for the future and a the biggest motivational burst I can ever imagine.

I was hospitalised in October, January, March and then twice this month... seriously? What the FUCK have I been doing?

Monday, 16 May 2011


I've just, literally just, taken laxatives for the first time in over a year. Don't be disappointed, don't take this personally. Let go of my hand, so you don't slip on the ice with me.

I need to be empty, but I don't want the silence that usually comes with emptiness. I want a vacuum, I want to know that inside I am clean and I am empty, but I need some violence, too. An explosion in space. Sorry, I have too many terrible analogies going through my head, because I don't know how to explain these things to people who don't live their lives constantly and consistently searching for a weapon of mass self-destruction. And maybe I shouldn't try 'cause you understanding isn't going to change anything. But I need to communicate this.

I know I'm going to be disappointed in myself. But right now, I just want NOTHING inside of me.

Thursday, 12 May 2011

Few weeks in the life.

Security, police, ambulance.
Section 136, more bruises, more time in psych.
New diag-nonsense, more checks, new ideas for hospital stays.
Sickness, fainting, aches.

I think I owe myself the chances to write, to get shit out and to stop crying. Am I getting thrown out of university? Not right now, probably not. But how many more hospitalisations until then? 'The university gets really annoyed when the same name is flagged up so many times by security and the emergency services.' I don't know, I'm sure it won't happen... but what's going to happen when I leave anyway? 4 years of debt, to end up on benefits 'cause I'm too unstable to work?

I've worked so hard. So, so hard. But is it enough? Ever? Is there any point? Ever?

Sunday, 8 May 2011

Forgiving myself.

I am NOT a bad person.

Sometimes doing shit that I shouldn't doesn't mean I'm a terrible person, it just means that sometimes I forget this.

(forgive me?)

Tuesday, 3 May 2011

Feeling vulnerable.

I've found myself in a bit of odd position. I don't know whether this is going to be very coherent because I don't quite understand what happened/is happening, but bear with me. I did really well last week. Unprecedentedly well. And now I'm feeling a bit lost, because that isn't a place that I'm, like... It's alien. It's a strange place to be in and that scares me. I don't want to sound, you know, ungrateful or summat. Ungrateful isn't the word actually, because I really have worked hard to get to where I can start to do these things- I don't want to imply that my doing better is somehow down to anything but my own work, I am not taking this victory away from myself.

I know I sound like I'm making a disaster out of summat really quite good, but I think the disaster may already be happening. From eating a healthy amount, a GOOD amount, and not being sick very often and not worrying too much and even eating out twice, I've had two days of horrible, horrible binges. Far worse than I have been in months and months and months. So much vom' that I am feeling nauseous from from being dizzy. I feel revolting. And all I want is to starvestarvestarve. I want to sit with Pepsi and revision and hide. I want to shrink.

So now everything is triggering me. I'm scared of moving away from the disorder because it's all so different on the other side. It's like shaking off the stabilisers on your first bike. And I want to, I'm outgrowing this and that's GOOD. But I feel like I took steps forward and now I don't want to go back, but it feels inevitable. I know it's only been two days and this sounds like a lot of psycho-babble. But through this all, through the treatments and the disasters and the good shit too, I've actually got to know myself. And I'm a pussy. I'm a complete and utter wimp. I get caught in cycles that I'm afraid to get out of and I let myself slip back because I'll try my hardest to avoid...

Nah, this wasn't supposed to be self-deprecating. I'm sure that self-deprecating is probably just another way to stop myself making changes. Fine. It'll be fine.