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 ;))