Friday, 30 November 2012

Old lady joints.

Ginge has had Arthritis for as long as I can remember, so I suppose I was always pre-dispositioned to get it young myself, but I blame the fact that I've spent more years of my life with an eating disorder than without (even accounting for the years I was in recovery, before this blip), for quite how young I got it. There are far more consequences to this shit than weight fluctuations and swollen glands, let me tell you. Naively, I expected that this winter my joints wouldn't be too bad, because I have less weight on them, but God my left hip especially has gone today. The temperature has dropped and Jack Frost has taken his pneumatic drill to my body.

I've taken some Tramadol and now I'm a bit dopey, but my hip feels better and it's making me calmer. I was a bit of a mess this morning, I saw my shrink 'cause I wanted my meds, esp my anti-depresso, increased and while he upped that a tiny bit and gave me some sleeping pills (I yawned constantly, hahaha), everything else is apparently too high for my current size anyway. I have to gain 2kg in the next two weeks, for him to consider upping shit, 'cause my weight was down this week and my height was a little higher than I thought, so that's lowered my BMI. If I lose, they decrease my meds. I want to gain the weight, I want to gain far, far more in fact, but at the same time, I feel ginormous... such is the paradox of the disease, I know, but I just want to be where I was a few months ago.

I want to be this Rebecca Condron again, please. That's what I would like for Christmas.

Saturday, 24 November 2012


As I lose weight, I lose words. I forget where I'm going, suddenly stop talking half way through a sentence, and what I'm saying. I write completely different words to what I mean, dependent on outside noise or the inner battle. Recovery Condron could write, could express herself, Anorexic Condron has no idea what what's even going on, most of the time. Conversation feels stilted, like I'm at least half a beat off with every comeback, and even my strongest opinions, even my values and politics, justice and logic, are only half hearted right now because I can't spare the energy or mind space to formulate (it just took me literally minutes to come up with the word 'formulate').

I don't feel a vast amount right now, I'm relatively alright because my weight today was lower than yesterday, and yesterday was lower than the day before, and so on. I hate that. I hate that I'm allowing my day to be dictated by the lump of plastic, glass and metal that inhabits a small square in my bathroom. I hate that I've let myself get ill again, fall for the empty promises of the disorder. I hate my lack of eloquence and I'm starting to understand why the psychotherapy team will only work with me if I'm over a certain BMI (I'm currently just about above it, but I don't know that I can reign it in enough to maintain/gain), 'cause my cognitive skills are already falling apart.

Words are everything to me. The written word is my favourite form of art, and despite not being particularly artistic in that field myself, I'm a true appreciator of the great artists. But I can't even read right now, I'm reading a pretty light book at the moment- -The 100 Year Old Man Who Climbed Out of a Window and Disappeared', which I recommend by the way, it's like a Swedish Forrest Gump, but kookier- but I have to constantly go back to remember how the characters met and what they've done, etc etc. The fine artists are so far above my current intellectual level, my reading age must currently be about 12.

The logical thing is obvious even to me. Eat more; do more; live more. But... I just can't. I need a light at the end of this tunnel, and for it not to be a train.

Sunday, 18 November 2012


I got sectioned this year on about the 28th of August, in Colchester. That was mid-week and my birthday is the 1st of September. I need to get a complaint in, actually, just thinking about it, 'cause the team who sectioned me told me did so under a set of conditions, none of which were met. Half the time, prisoners have more rights than psych patients, swear down. Actually, yanno, the section itself needs my bitchings- I agreed to go voluntarily so they shouldn't have sectioned me anyway. I really do like complaining. BUT ANYWAY. Ginge got her gears going to get me transported to the nuthut in Scunthorpe, 'cause being in hospital 5 hours from home is a bit of a shitter. Also, Scunny nuthut is dead nice- you get an ensuite and I've been in so many times that I get know all of the staff, dead well, hahahaha. I virtually am a staff member, just a particularly lazy one ;).

So I got woken up on that Saturday, my 22nd birthday, at about 7 and was given an injection and several pills before I had a clue what was going on. Somehow (I vaguely remember sitting between two nurses who wanted me to eat grapes, in a taxi or ambulance car or some other type of car or summat), absolutely off my tits on all the drugs they gave me, I found myself hours later in Scunny's psychiatric intensive care. By evening, which I can only just sort of remember from, I wasn't in much of a party mood. I think by then it'd been a few days since I'd taken any food or drink, so that plus all the drugs and just being locked up again, didn't make for much of a birthday, so I decided I just wasn't going to have it. No cards or presents or a thing.

So we had my birthday this weekend. My brother lives in London, so me and Ginge went down on Friday and went to the Natural History Museum 'cause I bloody LOVE dinosaurs. And whales and anything really big. Then on to the V&A and I got such a hard-on over all the clothes on show and finally for cocktails. Saturday, my brother and his friend took us around London by foot (Ginge and I are now hobbling 'cause of our shitty joints), including a mini tour of watering holes. Now we're back and exhausted, but it was great to get away, away from all the money stresses and the depression and isolation, just for a few days. I'll give you the link to the Facebook album, 'cause I can't be arsed uploading owt proper onto here...

Tuesday, 13 November 2012


I'm sure I've written about money before, more specifically, my complete lack of it. And I'm really in the shitter right now, in some serious debt. I need to find a way to come up with a grand, and then another £310 a month after that, pretty damn quickly. I don't come from the type of family with that sort of money. Without going into too much detail, we lived years with my mum's abusive ex who had her wages put into a 'joint' account, to which only he had access, so when we left, we had nothing much more than our clothes. At the time we left, unmarried couples, even those who had co-habited for almost 7 years, had no rights as to money or owt like that, despite him buying a fucking holiday home before we left. There was talk about changing that law after we'd gone, but (probably bad for me as a politics student), I don't know whether they ever did. It's irrelevant anyway, we left in 2005, on my 15th birthday. We have a roof over our heads and food on the table, but monetary wise, we still have nothing.

I can max out my credit card, which I've never used, and that would give me £500 of it. But the rest? And after that? Ginge wants me to go to my dad, but we're estranged for reasons that we're both at fault for, really (although I'm sure he doesn't know my reasons, and just thinks of me as some sort of ungrateful brat). Besides which, my dad claims I only ever go to him for money. I hate not having my dad in my life and that needs fixing, but I don't know how that can be fixed when, well, I would be coming to him for money. Bad timing for a reunion.

I'm seeing my CPN tomorrow and I don't know whether he can offer any advice. I'm hoping so. I just have no idea what to do and Ginge is stressed, which makes me feel even more stressed 'cause I know I cause her enough problems.

Monday, 12 November 2012

I need to write.

It's been almost a month since my last post and not a whole lot has changed. I'm not self harming anymore- I actually almost lost my lower right arm due to it. I got a terrible infection and was told by a doctor it had been caught just in time (I was then admitted to hospital for IV antibiotics and all that kind of balls). I'm still stuck indoors, I'm still underweight, I'm just not where I feel I ought to be, not at all.

The comments on my last post meant a lot, by the way, and logical Condron knows that health comes first. Fucked up Condron is convinced everything is fucked up. Guess who wins most days?

I miss writing here, I suppose it's the only way I ever really know how I'm feeling. Although I know I'm just permanently anxious right now and nowt is taking the edge off. I have a selection of various pills, and nowt is even beginning to touch it. I feel a such a need to write, but I don't even know where to start, what even I NEED to write. I'm so out of touch with myself, I think, I have been since I was admitted in August, when my writing mostly stopped. So I'm back. I'm going to keep trying, keep coming back, keep typing typing typing until I finally work this shit out, work out how I feel and all of that. I need to write.

stopbeinginappropriatewithyourbread has, over the years, been my best therapist, ever.