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.