It's been over three years now since I was first told I'd never recover. My new year's resolution for 2009 involved a vague, abstract idea- some seedling about getting better, that I didn't understand. I had no idea what getting better even was and the idea of even daring to want more was alien. That's the thing about when all you are is an agent of your own destruction, there just doesn't seem to be any alternative; not even a best case scenario or summat you think could theoretically be done, but seems beyond the realm of possibility. There's nothing at all. I existed purely to destroy myself and I wasn't sure that could, would or even should be changed, kind of like how you JUST WOULDN'T change the entire purpose and all the features of a freezer to make it an oven. And in 2008, when I was 17 or 18, my GP at the time told me it couldn't be changed. I couldn't change it. There was nothing else for me, but to sort of make me comfortable. I was terminal, to put it more bluntly. Despite this though, I could protect the flicker of the fight because I was annoyed at somebody who was virtually a stranger, with no specialist knowledge, dared to write me off so completely. So I started 2009 with the resolution that something had to change.
But in 2009, the 'fact' of how I'd never get better seemed to be the bloody chorus of my life. When my GP said it, it fired me up because as far as I was concerned, he knew shite all and I wanted to prove him wrong. When my psychiatrist said it, it shook me up because he obviously knew more than my GP, although I sort of soothed myself with by thinking of how he wasn't a specialist. When the specialist said it, it destroyed me. And then the specialists kept saying it. And saying it. And saying it.
But 2009 was a long time ago. Have I showed them? No. If anything, they've been proved right. When she elaborated, the specialist told me that it would be likely that after hospitalisations I'd have brief periods where my symptoms would lessen somewhat, before I'd inevitably slip and need readmission. I probably wouldn't live an especially long life and (she didn't say this next bit, but it seems logical to me) that probably wouldn't be too bad of a thing, because maybe it's better to risk the chance of hell in the afterlife, than hell in this one. Since 2009 I've had, what... seven admissions? Feeding tubes three or four times? And now, my symptoms have lessened somewhat but, if I'm going to be honest (and I'm not going into details), I'm not brilliant right now, although better since my last admission/tube in October. It's prophetic, hey?
Or not. That doesn't sit comfortably with me. Do you ever find that sometimes you don't know how you feel until you say you're fine, and then realise that you know what a lie feels like, and that felt like a lie? Well, saying that they've been proved right feels like bullshit. The way they predicted my life made it sound like I had no will, none of whatever it is that distinguishes people from and trees and rocks. I wasn't a person. And I'm not having that. My symptoms haven't lessened because the disorder comes in tides, they've lessened through hard-bloody-work and having some really, really incredible people around me. I don't know how much better I'll get and I'm not going to fuck myself in the arse by making predictions. All I know is I've come a long way, mentally- I'm not the person I was at the start of 2009, even if sometimes my symptoms are similar to hers. I was going to validate this claim for yez, but then I realised I don't have to. I'm NOT that person and the fight isn't about to leave me. It's only ever grown, since my 2009 resolution.
So for 2012, I have no resolutions. Well, I do and I'll probably tell you about them some other time. But not related to my eating. I'm just going to keep on truckin' and know that I'll never go back. I can't ever go back.