Tuesday, 25 January 2011


When I am down I have no words. All I have is this, words about my lack of words.

I'm drinking vodka and eating sweeteners and I know that I will not sleep tonight. But I am alive. And maybe that's a good thing.

Thursday, 20 January 2011

Leave me alone.

I went to bed last night, turned off the light, and immediately started hysterically crying. My best friend here was out, my flat mate was out, I couldn't get hold of my boyfriend. In the end my boyfriend came and my flat mate came back- I'm so, so lucky. SO lucky. My flat mate had already bought me a bottle of Pepsi because I was down and my boyfriend is, I know, willing to do whatever.

All I want is to be left alone. I don't know how to describe this one, but that's what the feeling is. I don't want my friends and my boyfriend to leave me alone. I don't want my family to stop caring and people to stop listening. That's not what it is. But I feel like I'm drowning in feelings and sentiments that aren't my own, that aren't anybody's; feelings that other people have left behind, all the dread and the anger without a mind in which to dwell. I'm absorbing, picking up, what that what had flitted into the mind of somebody else, only to be discarded.

Wednesday, 19 January 2011


This is undoubtedly going to be a two-parter, because I have a lecture in 21 minutes and I have many a thought on this one. I think my first thought is probably about the stupidity. How many of my followers are pro-Ana? It's like they see the title of my blog and presume it's something foody. Which, fair enough, it's called this because it's something I got told A LOT when I was in in-patient treatment. Then they clock on, spot the term 'eating disordered' in my little blurb thing, and then never read my blog again.

I don't mind people following my blog. No, I LIKE people following my blog. People I know and people I don't. And even the pro-Ana lot joining- I don't mind, just don't expect that I'm going to follow you, let's not be myspace about this. I just don't see the point when you're looking for pictures of Mary-Kate, following a blog that is all about my struggle to recover. I think it actually sort of takes the piss.

Good luck with your quest for skinny. Good look in pinning down that elusive diagnosis. Getting all the boys to fancy you and all the girls to be jealous of the fact that you can poke their eyes out with your hipbones. Walking in the snow without leaving a foot print, weaving in between rain drops. Whatever, I don't care. Maybe you will eventually get an eating disorder- you enjoy that. Just don't expect any help in your quest from me.

Sunday, 16 January 2011

A trip down memory lane.

I'm feeling shitty. But old pictures make me happy. I was bloody beaut (and a bit of a hipster).

I'm not nostalgic about my childhood, not at all. Five years after the last of these photos, I was spending nights with my fingers down my throat and days picking my skin, in doctor's surgeries. But I'm nostalgic for this child, I'm nostalgic for all that was lost and taken and... God. A life. I want to shout a warning, I want to be my own guardian angel.

I hope I have a little girl. She will never know the smell, the taste, of self destruction. She'll never thirst for pain or detest a single freckle on her body.

Friday, 14 January 2011

'Just a cry for attention.'

Such a strange turn of phrase, for so many reasons. First of all the 'just'. Just? There's no 'just' in an action that harms oneself. I hate that people normalise these things; I used to hate when people, in an attempt to make me feel better, would liken my eating disorder to how most women have body issues or how everybody drinks to escape. I don't know why it bothered, bothers, me. Maybe you're making me feel like I'm over-reacting. What am I writing for? Maybe I want to be different? To be more, to feel more? Or less. I don't know.

I hate that 'cry for attention' is used to write an action off. It's unimportant because the person didn't mean to die. Well maybe the person did the action to try and get attention, help, before they DID mean to die. I'm trying to think whether any of my actions were or have been written of as a cry for attention. I'm not sure, the times around those actions are always a blur.

And I hate even more that it has negative connotations. It sounds vile, when you think about it. It implies control and something sort of childish and demanding. There's so much that isn't said by the phrase- the hurt that somebody has to feel, the indescribable pain, to inflict a self harming behaviour, be it as a cry for something or, I don't know, for some other reason. Maybe if a person cried for attention in this way, it's because they bloody need it.

Just a thought.

In other news, today I planned two essays, went to the doctor, took a walk, tidied and cleaned my room. I can't stop, I need distractions. This next week is going to be so hard, stay with me.

Tuesday, 11 January 2011

6 weeks without scales, part deux (or, taking victories)

Well, it wasn't really six weeks. I said before how being home was driving me mad? I missed my scales, too- that was a part of it. I know that's bad, but you know what? They make me happy more often than they upset me. And not because my weight is low (I am perfectly healthy and almost perfectly happy with that), but because IT'S NEVER AS BAD AS I THINK IT WILL BE. That's not really a metaphor for life or owt (although I'm sure you could apply it to shit, I don't mind if you want to), but I always imagine my weight as way higher than it is and get really freaked out over it, when I can't check for sure. But it's fine.

I got a taxi home from the train station, my brilliant flatmate met me from there and helped me lug my crap home (I have never mastered the art of travelling light. I mean, I like to take toys and valium on nights out) and then we had a catch up and then I weighed myself. All in that order, all very casual. You see what I'm doing? I'm taking the fact that I did not rush in and weigh myself, instead I spent a nice couple of hours chatting, as a victory. I'm very good at making everything I do a negative. My last therapist once told me that a person will look for signs to confirm what they think of themselves, thus digging themselves further into their thought processes. Which is very interesting and very true. Anyway, that got boring and now I'm taking victories.

I'm also taking the fact that I have gained 3kg and yet am still in the process of getting ready for a night out (I'm slightly tipsy, did you realise?) as a victory, too. I have decided that this year I am going to win everything. Victories all over the shop.

Thursday, 6 January 2011

Another contradiction.

I'm going to assume now that everybody reading this has at least read (I'm also OBVIOUSLY assuming that somebody is going to read this. At least SOMEBODY should, I'm very interesting) my recent entries and would therefore have picked up on the fact that I AM contradicting myself, making this admittance necessary.

So here is my big contradiction... You know how when it first started snowing in Colchester, I said how it was getting me down because it reminded me of last year and how awful it was? Yeah? Well you know how I THEN said, when I got back to Scunthorpe, that actually the snow made me feel good because although it reminded me of this time last year, that made me realise how far I'd come? Well I'd like to change my mind on that once again, please.

I'm feeling pretty shit. Not horrifically, don't worry. I'm coping. I'm getting out of the house. I'm eating alright. And I'm certainly not about to overdose. Checking off my warning signs- I'm not 'losing' time, I'm not doing excessive list-writing, I'm not afraid to sleep. Blahblah, I'm not high on any of my warning scales. I just... I'm anxious. I have this black cloud of doom over my head and a gnawing pain in my stomach. Fear pulsing through my blood. I ache and I'm exhausted and I am so, so worried.

And I know what I'm worried about and that just makes it worse, because I can't fix it. Maybe you'd have had to have known me last year to understand, I'm sure Lily remembers. I remember. I'm worried, right now I'm terrified of, going into hospital. Understand, right now I have no plans to go into hospital soon, nor do I have any reason to go, or to suppose that I'll have a long stay at any time this year. It would be stupid to expect that I won't have any blips over the next year, or to expect... actually, what I was about to say is irrelevant. Back to now. A year ago I was waiting by the phone, for a call to tell me that I'd be going in, for months, at any time. And that's what's looming over me. The new year, the feel of sitting and waiting.

And sure, now I'm just killing time until I go back to uni. But I think it's the wait that's doing this to me now. Just... waiting. My life is on hold. And although I know now that in two weeks my course, my routine, will be in full swing again and it's not like last year when I knew it'd be months before I even got to have a proper night out, it's hard to really make my subconscious know that. I should have this right, right now, to be able to relax and get myself together; to enjoy my time at home, the place I have missed so much over the last 3 months; but the ghosts of the beginning of last year won't let me. Being at home is making me sick, quite literally. My hard work is being destro- no, not destroyed. I was going to say destroyed but I totally believe that shit like this can only be destroyed if you let it. External forces can't destroy such. And I'm not about to let all I have done be even vaguely damaged.

So I'm going back to uni on Tuesday. Even though that's a week before I need to go, and had you asked me a month ago I'd have told you I planned on spending all the time I could here. I'd have planned on going back the day before my lectures started. But I can't, I need to get out of this house and away from the ghosts, the skeletons (anxious or not, I can still make puns). You know, running away isn't always a bad thing. Sometimes you have to run to protect yourself, there is no sense in facing what does not need to be faced. Taking the easy route isn't being weak, it's actually being damn clever. And so I'm going to look after myself and hope the rest comes together.

Monday, 3 January 2011


If you'd have told me a year ago exactly what 2010 would entail, I'd have assured you that I would not survive it. I'd have promised you, I'd have looked you in the eye and sworn until I was blue in the face that my destruction, my hideous, self-inflicted, rotten and diseased death, would have been inevitable. I'd maybe have laughed about exactly how inevitable it would have been and no doubt I'd have told you exactly how it would come about. Which of my tested techniques would be chosen. I'd have taken out the wad of suicide notes that I had prepared (because past experience had taught me that there is no beauty, no dignity, in attempts and so, undoubtedly, so beauty in death. No beauty in pills and blood and tears; no beauty in the act, the discovery, the hospitalisations and demands, and definitely no beauty to put on paper, to express all that has gone before and will come after) and I'd have been utterly cold to the idea of it.

For me to sit here and tell you that, quite honestly, I am happy to be alive, to have more than survived it... Well. Actually, I need to sit for a minute myself to take that in. I keep saying things about myself and then realising that they're not true at all, not any longer. I won't go out of my way to avoid conflict- if you are wrong or you are hurting me or somebody else, I'll do all I can stop you. Even if I didn't have my boyfriend, I would not jump into bed with you, just because I'm amazed by your attention. You know, I don't hate myself. I DO NOT HATE MYSELF. I deserve to be alive. More than that, I deserve to live. To be happy. To be healthy.

That's what 2010 entailed, that you could never have told me. You could never have explained the effects of all that happened. You could never have told me that everything would change, my entire way of thinking would change, overnight. Almost literally. You could never have told me that I could get so low and climb so far up. I survived 2010 and I will never be able to look back at all the pain and the difficulty of it with anything other than positivity. The hardest year of my life; the year with most hospital admissions; the year I skated with death the most; the year with most time spent listless, hungry, bleeding, crying, hysterical, terrified, burning... has been the best year of life. Because it's the year I learnt to live.

That there is no worth in a hunger strike without a cause. Bones are beautiful- as a part of the most beautiful thing of all, a living body- but so is fat and skin and flesh. There is nothing more valuable than health or happiness, and each second not spent fighting for either or both, with all you are, is like throwing another handful of money onto a bonfire. The number on the scale is irrelevant. The size in the clothes matters only as far as finding a fit.

I'm happy. Honestly, I'm finally happy.