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
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

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.

CON:
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.

PRO:
Periods mean health and an empty womb.

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

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

CON:
I need to tidy my room...

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

CON:
I'm a bit of a globster.

PRO:
I'm a globster with incredible boobs.




OVER AND OUT.

Saturday, 18 June 2011

Bullying.

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.