Saturday, 21 April 2012

Because it seemed slightly less attention seekery than putting it on facebook.

I'm back in Essex and I hate it. I'm miserable. I'm surrounded by papers that I need to do and all I'm doing is sitting and crying because I'm having withdrawals from alcohol and one of my meds (it's my own fault, so don't even feel a tiny bit sorry for me. Well, sort of. No, it is, don't let me self-pity even more. My GP fucked up and so I had to go a day without my anti-psychotic, which without I can't sleep. And also without, I go massively paranoid and anxious and scared of sleep. So now I have the pills and I'm too scared to take them 'cause then I'll sleep and so I'm at about hour 52 without sleep and I can barely see or walk and I keep throwing up bile and choking on my own snot).

 I can't see past the next few hours and the necessity of staying awake for basically the rest of my life, but yesterday I had someone from the uni tell me that if any other student catches wind of this crisis, I will be kicked out. Then a nurse toady tell me that if I don't sleep, I'll end up sectioned and failing uni. It's all brilliant for paranoia, I must say.

 And it all seems a little too big, when all I can think about is not falling asleep, and all the potentially horrific things that people could do to me/could happen if I do fall asleep. I have 4 essays due in this week, and I've almost finished one and done half of another. I can barely type this, never mind do all the necessary shit for those essays. My exams start in a few weeks and I know nothing. Oh, and I have a make up exam to take on a computer programme that I don't even know how to open, next week. Sometimes people say they're going to fail, then they totally pull it out the bag. I assure you, this is not one of those times. That's if I even get the chance to fail, before the uni kicks me out.

Urgh, I just read my last entry. I actually make myself sick, I can't seem to fucking do anything or exist any amount of time as a regular human being before I have some fucking drama. Don't worry, the irony of this post and the last isn't wasted on me.

Saturday, 14 April 2012

Uncertainty.

Last summer, I very nearly had myself convinced to drop out of my politics degree- a subject that I'm so irritatingly passionate about that you proper don't ever want to try and watch the news with me. Or ask me an opinion. On anything. I'm actually a nightmare for conversation at all, hahaha- and go study nursing. I have never once wanted to be a nurse, or a doctor or a teacher or really anything concrete, apart from the few years where I desperately wanted to be a rabbit, and that confused period when my big brother had me convinced that girls grow into men and I was quite excited about being able to wee standing up. Right now, I don't completely know what I want to do, besides a vague idea about working for a charity or a cause that I believe in; for an atheist, I'm not short of things I believe in. That doesn't sit comfortably with me, the idea of not knowing, and that was very nearly enough to have me on the path to a career I didn't want, just because then I'd have a near certain outcome at the end of it. Needless to say, I got myself together and realised what a shite idea it'd be and I reck had I decided to do it, a million people would have popped up and told me not to be an utter moron.

I'm constantly trying to guess what's coming up and the more I do that, the more it scares me. I find myself planning what would be the best thing to take next time I'm in hospital and panicking over how much I want to do over the last few years and when my next hospitalisations will fit, when can I afford to be sectioned? It's ridiculous and it sounds even more so now I've put words to the thoughts and the plans, but when you think that I've had 7 psych admissions in the last not-quite-three years, it's a bit of a depressing actuality. Bizarrely, perhaps, 5/7 of the admissions have been in the Spring and Summer, one in October and one in January so I find myself worrying more now than I did over the Autumn and Winter, despite feeling much better now than I did at the end of last year. The last few months of last year were so terrible that I can't imagine still being alive now had it not got better, had I not got better, yet I still sort of waste time hoping that I'm not in hospital this year when I ought to be in Spain, since last summer I was locked up when I was meant to be in Belfast.

The inspirational quotes tell me all kinds of bullshit about thoughts becoming reality and about me being the master of my own destiny. I wish I was and I think a lot of it is about that, me trying to convince myself that I can plan my breakdowns because I can't handle not being in control of such a massive thing. The thought of not knowing how/if I'm going to be healthy in both the short and the long term. While on some things I am my own master, I'm not studying nursing, after all, on others it's so horrifically and hideously not true. I know nobody can plan everything, but it seems such a huge thing to be unpredictable. Your thoughts and feelings, at least, should be... I don't know. They should feel like your own, in the way my own don't always. I'm not in control of my demons, not all the time, and that uncertainty is such a bitch. I can think happy thoughts 'til the cows come home and I can decide that tomorrow everything will be perfect, but I can't think myself healthy. I HATE that, not the whole happy thoughts thing, because I think only boring people can construct totally happy thoughts, I'm too deep and mysterious (I'm also full of shit, in case that wasn't apparent), but just that I can't decide to fix things and fix them and then have everything... fixed. Total overuse of the word fix, hahaha.

I sometimes sit and wonder how long I can go, at what point I become dancing on borrowed time, before my next episode. I know people go into a sort of recovery, a remission, but I don't feel like I'm there for the long term right now. This is a bit melancholy, I am in recovery from my eating disorder, I just feel a bit uncertain about everything else and it's annoying. I have a lot of faith and a lot riding on the new therapy that I'm starting in a few weeks, after all the therapies of the past, I have more faith in what my new therapist thinks we can do. So we'll see. But I still can't know for sure... I can't cage the demons and my head just goes around and around thinking about when it'll be and whether my next admission will be in Scunthorpe or Essex or Christ knows where. Eurgh.

I do over-think though, that I'll admit. I read about girls on eating disorder wards or I think about being on myself again or having feeding tubes again, and plan what I'd do differently this time. And that's definitely something I can control. Eating disorders are slippery bastards, and although sometimes I fuck around more than I ought to, and I fanny about with my weight, I know that, quite simply, I can't go back. Physically and mentally, I cannot start another war from the beginning. And so I won't; I fought long and hard and I won't go back. I think that's the difference though, I feel like I worked long and hard with my eating, but it feels more like, well, medication, is what's controlling everything else, and I just don't trust anything or anybody but me, to save myself. I'm the only person I know I can rely on and that's quite a heavy burden. Ooft. Sometimes I wonder if the next hospitalisation will be a relief, because then I know I'm free for a few months, but since I got sectioned last year two days after I got off the section before that, I know that's not how it works. I need to know something, ANYTHING, right now.

Monday, 9 April 2012

Laxatives.

I can see you pulling a face already. Wait, nobody told you than mental illness, much less eating disorders, are not glamourous? Nobody informed you that sometimes there are some fowl things to be done? Many apologies, and big hugs to those still reading, hahaha. I'm not going to go into any graphic details and I promise that at the end of this I'll treat you to a picture of summat completely unrelated ;).

I used to have a love-hate relationship with laxatives. My eating disorder loved them as much as it hated my body, and so I got the very, very strange satisfaction of making my body cry out and hurt as much as my being did. I got to cause near total destruction to the prison I felt I trapped in, with the knowledge all the while that destroying it was a suicide mission and the feel that with that end inevitable, the destruction must be slow and agonising. Does this sound like an exaggeration? I'm not precious when it comes to pain; I broke my nose last year and didn't realise until I looked in the mirror and saw I looked like an alien, par example. With the volume of laxatives I took, and we're talking between 40 on a rare good day, and 120 as it ended up before I was placed on an eating disorders ward, it was a rare night that wasn't spent between shitting blood, vomiting blood and crying not blood, but dry heaves and gasps, from the agony. Daybreak would come with me shaking, exhausted, neither awake nor asleep and almost set to claim sanctuary at the foot of a church my cotton-wool mind conjured.

Over the last, oh, year and a half maybe, I've developed an aversion to even the thought of them. I came out of the eating disorder ward just before I began this blog and I know that there are earlier entries about having taken them, I have a weird deja vu writing this. I came out and came back on to them and ended up on various other wards, as a direct consequence of them and how much I vomited and how little I ate and all that balls you already know. And then I stopped. I physically couldn't do it anymore, for various reasons you probably don't wanna read, ahahaha, and I mentally was ready to fight. Since then, the idea of them makes me queasy. When Ellis had some in her room, I almost went on a full-scale ED police raid (I'm a bugger. Not gon' lie) before she told me that actually, most people just take them as they should, when they need them. No more, no less. Bit of a weird one, I suppose I associated them with making yourself sick, bar maybe being too drunk (I once actually stuck my fingers down someone's throat because we was both ham'd and she needed to be sick. Not gon' name her on her, for security purposes ;)), I don't think there's ever really a time when you can justify that one as a normal act.

Problem came last week. You know how I posted a few days ago a garbled post, because I wasn't eating? I've got that back under control, I'm fighting and I'm fine and I'm about to eat my tea (or probably skip my tea and have ice cream and vodka. Nutrition is most definitely my strong point). Part of the reason I got it back together was that it got me constipated as, um... I was going to say shit, I end too many sentences like that, but I suppose it's not dead appropriate. It got so bad, that I took a few laxatives. Nothing like I used to, an amount that'd have done nowt 18 months ago, but have had me ill now for days. My stomach hurts, my head hurts, I constantly feel nauseous, I'm dizzy and I feel just generally bleeeeurgh.

And I remembered how sensitive and ill my stomach still is. I'm not completely recovered from my eating disorder, but I'm getting there, yet I still have to take medication for my stomach, or I get ulcers. I have to be really careful about how much fluid I take in, or my bloods get screwed up and I can end up on drips, even if I've been doing ok. I have low kidney function; arthritis; circulation so bad that my extremities, and even my whole legs at times, are usually purple; crumbling teeth; sallow skin; random patches of dark hairs all over my body; I'm almost always bloated like a starving African; and I permanently shake- all from the years of abuse. I'm one of the lucky ones, my doctor's were always amazed that I didn't have more physical problems, given all I did to myself, but still I have to be so careful. When I was ill, there was no foresight and no concept of the long term. I didn't care and if I could tell the person I was at my most ill how physical problems would plague me for years, I'd not have cared. But shit, what an almighty waste it all was.

(Anyway, this is a Myspace picture of me from when I was about 16. Ahhh, such a cutie ;))

Friday, 6 April 2012

Making up for lost time.

I expect a lot of myself. I expect top grades, my body to look a certain way, I expect to feel a certain way and act a certain way and when I don't... I don't like it. To put it oh-so very politely. I rarely live up to my standards and I HATE that, I want everything to go how I plan and life just isn't like that. I don't feel happy when I get, for example, a certain grade or when I lose weight or when I spend a day acting like the person I wish I was, I feel detached and sort of like, oh. You don't celebrate the normal, you just curse the bad surprises. Wait, that sounds a bit arrogant, maybe, it's not that doing amazing as I expect is the norm, far from it. My standards are so high that they're not often met. I expect a lot, very probably more than I should, for the amount of pressure I put on myself. But should I lower those standards, then I have to resign myself to mediocrity and there's a certain pessimism to that.

I've had to narrow my expectations, over the years. Sort of heighten the ones I have myself so that I could all but remove the ones I have of other people. I used to expect a lot of people, and I know that I hurt a lot of people by expecting some sort of everlasting patience, while being not able to give any back. I had to lower the ones I had of anything that I couldn't control directly, really, but even then I wasn't protected. I'm still hurting over having to change all I worked towards, having to give up on going abroad this September. It sounds so little and so insignificant but when I was laid in hospital beds, that was what got me through- the idea of escaping.

The idea of being free, of being able to decide that I want to go to, oh, I don't know... Latvia or Bosnia or Christ, Idaho, at the drop of the hat, that's my dream. It's a young person's dream, it doesn't fit with having a steady job, a mortgage and kids at school. I feel like there's a time limit and I missed it, anyone who wanted to do that did a gap year, as I did, and disappeared and saw and did amazing things. I saw the inside of numerous hospital wards and was fed bags of feed through my nose. What did I do? I got better and that was amazing... but it was work to be normal, it wasn't the sort of fun you have from travelling, the stories and pictures.

So fuck it, I'm going to do it delayed. I'm going to graduate, then I'm going to save enough money to put me up in a motel somewhere random in America and take off. I'm going to play completely on the OH HI, I'M BRITISH thing (and get some elocution lessons, since I have quite a broad accent that few foreigners can decipher, hahaha) to get me a minimum wage job and see where it goes. I wanted so badly to go to America in September. I'm bordering on obsessed with America, it terrifies and fascinates me. Then I'll come home, and maybe I'll take off and work in an eastern European orphanage. Maybe I'll get a real job. Maybe I won't be able to do this as soon as I leave uni, but I will. I want to be free. I will be free. I just need to fly the fuck away.

Wednesday, 4 April 2012

Numb.

That's not numb in a bad way, by the way. It's numb in an unproductive way, but it's always nice to have a break. It's a strangely nostalgic feeling, melancholy but familiar. I know this feeling well, although I've not let myself feel it for so long. Sorry, this is making little sense already. I'm not eating very much, I haven't over the last fortnight or so. If I wasn't so numb and exhausted, I'd berate myself because I could fight, I'm sure I could try to fight it. But I just need a little break, like what I was saying before about needing a rest from all the stress. Taking a break from fighting the guilt and the stress and how huge I was feeling has taken a massive weight (no pun intended) off, and all the rest of the stresses are sort of just bouncing off me because I don't have the energy now. It's a bit like being in a bubble. I can see the real world but it seems very separated from my little bubble, my own tiny world. Nothing can touch me, but by the same token I can't touch or feel anything.

Ohhhh, this is some bad writing. It's strange, I can't think about anything and I was going to to write about summat, I'm sure, but I don't know what it was. This entry in itself is probably a reason why you should always eat properly, my mind is completely empty and I have nowt very interesting to write. So I suppose I'll end this now. Definitely need to start fighting again and winning again over the next few days, only get a limited amount of annual leave I guess, hahahaha.