Saturday, 26 February 2011

Making myself feel like shit.

Stop looking at those photos.
Stop looking at those photos.
Stop looking at those photos.
Stop looking at those photos.
Stop looking at those photos.

I don't whether this is a me thing, or an angsty little ginger thing, or an eating disorder thing, or a mentalist thing (or, actually, if there is any difference between those things), but whenever I start to feel NONE TOO SHABBY, I seem to go out of my way to ruin it. I can never just BE, I have to create more stress for myself, even over nothing. I am the Captain Ahab of the mental world (I've never actually read Moby Dick, although I did once sleep through a production of it, I'm only able to use it here 'cause of references to it on Arthur). And it is a proper creation of stress, it's not even me facing necessary shite. I go out of my way to pick things out that I KNOW will make me feel shit, things that could be (and usually are) avoided. Photographs, music, even situations... It's definitely a skill I have.

Right now, I'm even considering hopping on my scales, since I have going around my head that earlier I told my mate that I haven't weighed myself for a week and that, right now, ignorance is bliss. I'm facebook stalking people who I know are going to make me feel shit. Not because of any fault of their own, I wouldn't let anyone like that on my friend's list, but people who are... I don't know. I get competitive. It's disgusting to admit, please don't judge me, but there's still a part of me that wants to be the sickest, particularly when I get scared that I'm feeling alright. I'm not used to being alright, I don't know how to BE alright. But being ill, being the most ill, is a crown that is comfortable on my head. I don't think I'm expressing this very well, I'm still struggling with my OCD (hence the lack of words lately), I think I'm just not very comfortable right now.

(And also, I am very fat).

Friday, 18 February 2011



I'm obsessing over...

A pathetically clear insight into my OCD. I'm getting so upset and frustrated trying to express this. I feel like I've suddenly lost my ability to communicate. I can't type, the words are wrong and nothing is JUST RIGHT and so that means it's all so wrong. I can't get it right.

I'm overwhelmed. Obsession is exhausting. I can never be alone, it never leaves me alone. One symptom will always be replaced by another.

It never stops, does it? I'm tried of typing and deleting. I'm exhausted, I'm exhausted and trying to write is exhausting.

I'm OK, I'm just frustrated. The words won't come and I'm destructive.

Wednesday, 16 February 2011

Get involved.

Male or female. Eating disordered or not. Wish you were thinner, fatter, bigger boobed, smaller arsed, more muscles, less fat, wish the number in your clothes was smaller...

It's eating disorder awareness week from the 21st to the 28th of February. In the UK at least, I'm not too sure if it is elsewhere! But whether you're British or not, let's do something for it. If you are or have been affected by an eating disorder, I'm pretty sure you don't need to be made aware of the devastation so don't worry, I won't go all serious and post horrible stats. But let's so this for ourselves, let's work towards the beautiful end- a life free of all these unnecessary numbers...

So bugger the scales for a week. BUGGER THEM. Scales are for fish, yanno? And maybe for singers or musicians or summat (can you tell I'm not musical?)... BUT NOT FOR US. 'Cause we're BEAUTIFUL.

Invite away!

(Although, right, if your doctor wants to weigh you, don't use this as an excuse, HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.)

Sunday, 13 February 2011


For all my previous optimism, I haven't quite managed to shake this depression yet. Although, to be perfectly honest, it could just be PMT. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. I know that anybody else in the world (apart from those of us allowed, because we are mentals) would deserve a slap for comparing PMT to depression, but shhh. Like I said, I'm allowed because I'm a mental.

A period for me is no simple matter. I don't mean on gory details, but I mean all those <*~FEELINGS~*> (the symbols around that word are purely for hilarity and irony and that, just so we're clear. I think most of the time, the people who don't like me very much don't, because they don't realise how HILARIOUS I am). First of all it's relief that I'm even having one, because I went so long without and I want lots and lots of children, so I'd really rather not be sterile. Then it's disgust that now I DO get them, that I'm fat enough to get them. Next comes relief again, because PMS to me involves some really hardarse Bulimic behaviours, and it's good to know that I was doing all that shit for a reason other than my own madness. Then a bit of relief that most of the weight gain is water. Fear that it's not. And then disgust again that I'm now a fully functioning woman. Phew.

But right now I'm just horrified at my weight. I've spent most of the last 6 months maintaining within about a 2kg bracket. But now my weight has shot up by about 4kg and... urgh. I wasn't paying much attention when I was so completely down, the depression was protecting me from the Anorexic that isn't quite dead yet, inside me. But now they're battling it out and I don't know what to do. Obviously, I am going to lose the weight- that's got to be the plan. But do I rush in, give my life entirely to the disorder and get it done in a fortnight? Can I hold on and live with feeling huge for a bit longer, to do it slowly? There doesn't seem any point in doing it slowly. Oh, I don't know.

And I have an essay to be in on Tuesday. 3,500 words. I have no idea what to do with the title and I'm going to London tomorrow (and starting ED therapy, for the first time since the end of summer, incidentally) and so I won't do any then. I haven't started now. I know I can get extenuating circumstances and hand it in late, but it's what I was saying before- it would be nice not to have to. But I'm too busy berating myself for being human, to write an essay.

Wednesday, 9 February 2011

A weight gone.

Sadly only a figurative one, hahahahaha.

I've just met with the disability officer (isn't that the best job title ever? And don't you love that I count as disabled?) for my department at uni and now everything is lovely. I missed two deadlines a few weeks ago, whilst I was especially mental, and it turns out that having missed them won't effect my grade.

In a way, I'm sort of sad because part of me wants to do brilliantly without people having to make allowances. Like, right, I have alwaysalwaysalways been ill, right? And so I have never done amazingly at anything. I have never done or achieved anything very much and I hate all of that. I hate that I can't know for sure that my lack of brilliance is because I've been ill, but at the same time I know brilliance just isn't possible when I succumb to the darkest, most diseased parts of me. But now I'm at a good university, doing a good degree. And I want to make it fantastic- I want to get a first and then do a(n?) MA in Development and then be brilliant and successful and HAPPY. I wish that I could do all this and fight my demons and keep the two separate, but I suppose that right now it's ok if sometimes I need a leg up. I suppose I can be brilliant in a few years, right now I just need to be... not too bad. To be honest, as much as I wish I was brilliant, right now I know I ought to just appreciate progress.

And then progress to brilliance, OF COURSE.

Sunday, 6 February 2011

The black dogs.

'Oh, Sebastian wrote his diary that
He would never be young again.
But you will.
Fellow, you are ill,
You'd better take a weight off of your mind and listen
To what other people say
'Cause things are going wrong your own way.'

The black dogs are backing away and I can just about breathe again. This episode was horrible, so horrible, but I think I'm quite proud of how I handled it. I don't mean to be melodramatic, but I did minimal harm to myself (superficial cuts, that I have no recollection of making, tell the story of the episode all up my thigh. But there were no empty pill blisters or boxes this time, and just the one night in hospital) and to have survived the entire episode in this away, without more direct psychiatric input, is unprecedented. That's not to say I didn't have a LOT of input, because I did. I can't count the number of hours spent with my doctor, student support, crying all over my boyfriend and whinging at my flatmate. And Momma Ginge driving 5 hours down, just for a few hours with me. I had my anti-depressant doubled (which is what I think is causing the change). But, apart from when my physical condition deteriorated, nobody had to take away my sovereignty, to face my bipolar on my behalf. And for that, I'm grateful. I did it, I faced it and waited and...

So yes, I think I have made it. I am alive and maybe one day soon I'll be living again. I'm not out of the woods and the depression hasn't totally lifted. It's just a minor alteration; the black dogs of depression haven't backed away far, but in moving at all, I know that I'm going to shake them. I can start doing what I did, what I enjoy. Take part again in my life- going to lectures, skiving classes, doing minimal reading, drinking too much and dancing until I want a McDonald's- being young again.

There's just the issue of my body image right now. Whilst I was totally immersed in my depression, I wasn't aware of what I was eating or drinking. Before I was in hospital, it was clearly not enough. Post, I seem to have gone the other way, to avoid a repeat. And now I am hideous. My body is swollen and deformed. I want to fix it, but is attempting to worth it? Losing weight is rarely worthwhile. But can I... Oh, I don't know.

One day at a time.
It is ok to eat.
It is ok to eat.
It is ok to eat.

Thursday, 3 February 2011


I've become obsessed with violence.

Last week I ended up in hospital, because I was so down that I genuinely forgot to eat and drink. I went four nights with literally not a second of sleep, because I was afraid of losing control. It's all very ironic, I know, as what I was doing to attempt to claw control over those hours between daylight culminated in... well, a total breakdown of communication between every part of my being and yet another admission to put under my belt; a true lack of control, oh aye.

And now. Have I eaten today? I must have; my stomach is uncomfortably full, and all I want to do is vomit until I see blood. I don't want to vomit because I'm afraid of what's in me, calories or fat, it's more I need to because I'm afraid of... well yes, having anything in me. I'm afraid of not pushing the limits and not feeling the pain- I'm afraid of that silence. I need a loudness, a violence. I don't want that silence, this silence, this emptyness. Because I know that when all is silence and still bad things happen, bad things scurry in and fill the void.

All I can think of is ways to inflict violence, to cause the greatest noise within my body. I don't want to think. I want you to beat me up, to kick the shit out of me in a way that I'd love to be able to do to myself. I need a Tyler Durden, perhaps. I want to break, physically. But instead, I'm being a passive little bitch. I'm isolating and deliberately pissing off the people close to me, because although that's not nearly loud enough, it's better than silence. Causing such irritability, making myself a target for your weapons... I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.