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.