Wednesday, 26 December 2012

Nobody said it was easy... no one ever said it would be this hard

Forgive the lyrical title, forgive especially that it's a Coldplay lyric, hahahaha. Every admission I seem to get a particular lyric association, one that goes around my head that fits the particular moment and this is so far the line of this admission, despite me not having heard the song in what's probably years. My last admission, coming just 2 months after the one before that came from Jamie T 'two months clean; routine to relapse' and there have been hundreds more, one for each of those horrible periods.

The lyric fits perfectly though. I knew myself it would be tough, and people agreed and acknowledged that. But God, to find yourself bawling at breakfast because somebody else at the table has milk on their cereal and it's scaring you, or sitting on Christmas day and spending a fortune in the sales to distract yourself from quite how terrible the Christmas dinner has made you feel, it's a whole other ball game. Maybe because it's just about 3 year since my last eating disorder unit- I started stopbeinginappropriatewithyourbread just after having me chucked out of there- I'd forgotten exactly how hard meals are, I don't know. The food is tough, and it's strange whenever they make a comment like, 'your white blood cells are very low, but that tends to happen when you're at a very low weight' 'cause I feel gargantuan. On weigh day, I don't know what I was expecting, but I think I thought my weight would immediately be back to where it was before, not still a million miles away from where it ought to be. I know I'll get there and I'd rather get there here than in another unit 'cause at least this one is nice, but I want it now and I want to go home so badly. At the same time as really not wanting to gain weight at all. It's conflicting and confusing.

I'm not very eloquent, that's the exhaustion. Christmas day was lovely and extra terrible and extra lovely and terrible. Lovely in that Ginge and my brother James came to open presents; extra terrible in the food; extra lovely because just as I was sitting almost crying after a hard meal, there was a knock on the door and when it was answered I paid little attention until I heard the voice of my beautiful 11 year old cousin. Since Mohammed couldn't come to the mountain, the mountain came to Mohammed, in the form of my grandma, two of my aunties and my two absolute favourites- Emily and Harry, my 11 and 8 year old cousins. It was set up as a surprise, and it was the best Christmas surprise ever. I miss them all already, that's the second wave of terrible, but I was so, so happy. I don't remember being that happy in forever.

I hope it's a more permanent feeling during 2013, I hope I can make it stick. Because I tell you, if I could bottle and sell that feeling I'd be a millionaire in seconds, there's nothing on earth like it.

Sunday, 23 December 2012

Acute nuthut; eating disorder nuthut; rehab.

God, how things have changed since my last post. I'd actually been keeping a diary of everything unfolding, which I'll publish on here at some point. In the meantime, I'll fill you in with retrospect because I'm sitting in a hospital bed with a nurse next to me and don't really feel like getting my diary out and translating it to the screen- that seems too personal, somehow, despite not being able to piss without having someone within arm's reach of me. So the real time details shall wait.

I'm on an eating disorder unit. Not the one I've been to before, a far nicer one. But, at the end of the day, a unit is a unit, especially when you've to gain weight and you can't go home for Christmas. I'm getting ahead of myself. First of all, I was admitted to the nuthut. Again. I went to my appointment last week- how it was less than a week ago is unfathomable, this has been one hell of a long week- thinking that I'd maybe see if rehab was an option, and was actually told that it was the ONLY option and until such a time as they could sort a bed and funding and all that, I'd be admitted to the nuthut. Needless to say, I wasn't best impressed, but I was given leave of the evening and told I could have a few days out over Christmas, and so whilst I wasn't overly enthusiastic, I was alright. In one place, with guarantees.

So I thought. Instead, on Friday arvo I was taken into a meeting and told my BMI was too low for me to go to rehab, that instead I had to go to an ED unit to gain weight and then go to rehab after that. Adding more months to what is already going to be a longggg admission. I presumed that nowt could/would get done until the new year, not remembering that the week had already taught me to presume nowt good from these meetings. What actually happened was they came and told me little more than two hours later that they'd found a bed and that I was to go in that night. I flat out refused, so they called a section meeting and put me on a section 3. By the time all that was done, it  was too late to come and so I landed here yesterday.

How is it? How am I? Stressful. Stressed. I'm constantly anxious and by mistake or misdemeanor or misdesign, the nuthut staff said I was on half my usual dose of my anti-psychotic so I didn't sleep last night (it's a sedative) and have been extra anxious today. I feel like hell. And I can't go home for Christmas. Fed up would be an understatement, I just want to be home and I know it'll be summer at least by the time I'm finally free.

Sunday, 16 December 2012

Looking to the future.

Things aren't working out and they haven't been for a while, let's be honest. 'A while' is almost a joke- my life has been a mess for most of its duration and now I need to do something about it, I'm an adult that's my responsibility. Nobody has ever saved me, nor are they ever going to, not unless I truly put myself out there and make myself extremely vulnerable. Out-patient therapy combined with university didn't work for me; I couldn't do it, it was all too much. The various general psych admissions ground me down, beat me up, pealed and pickled my life. Treating the symptoms with tubes, drips, ventilators and the works have done nothing but bring me to rock bottom, rather than 6 feet below it.

What do I want? I want a job, and education, to even just be able to leave my house to see my girlfriend and my friends. I want to hold my girlfriend and not be stuck on one end of an internet line, to dance until my feet are on fire with my best friend and to laugh at her gorgeous baby boy, rather than just living though their facebook pages. I want to be able to say, 'things HAVE changed' and to be able to scream from the rooftops that it can be done, it has been done, and to be able to tell anybody that the trip to hell doesn't have to be one way. I want to work towards something and actually achieve it, not letting the bad times keep me down long, like Ce. I want to be adaptable and purposeful, like Willis. Even if I can't be superpowered like them, I want at least to live, like almost every bugger else.

A mental health worker told me the other day, just after I got out of hospital, that the cycle is never going to break whilst we're all just pissing about the edges and not attacking what's at the centre. I'm going to talk to my CPN tomorrow about a more intensive, therapeutic, inpatient admission, different from the general psych admissions I've had every few months for the last several years. Truth be told, the way my weight is heading it's likely that if I don't go somewhere voluntarily soon, I may be forced onto an eating disorder ward again, and that did NOT go well last time. To put it lightly. It was amongst the worst, most traumatic experiences of my life and as I said I before, my life has not been smooth sailing.

To have a future, I need to sacrifice my present. Which, given the hundredth of a life I'm currently living, wouldn't be much of a sacrifice at all. But I need to make myself vulnerable, despite how terribly that went last time and what a mess the time after it was. I need change and it's the only thing I can think that might help me.

Friday, 14 December 2012

A time for honesty.

I'm not a liar. I omit certain truths (if you feel great in summat and I'm not too sure, I'm not going to say owt. Who am I to knock your confidence? If you're in a changing room and ask my opinion though, I promise to be tactfully honest), basically because I'm not a bellend, I avoid all but necessary white lies and occasionally shit that'd get me sectioned, hahaha. If you have me on Facebook (I know some people read this as my Facebook friends, whilst others read this and have me added on Facebook through this), you'll know that I've been in hospital this week but I've been uncharacteristically candid about the details... although not about the flatulence of the old ladies on my ward, admittedly.

I took an overdose on Sunday night.

It wasn't my first overdose, but it was my worst. I've spent days in intensive care before, I've spent weeks having to have daily blood tests as a result of them. I think it's my second of the year, maybe. Basically, I've done this shit too many times. This time, I heard the voice of a person I was very close to but recently fell out with, taunting me over the week's worth of pills (they will never give me more than that. At the moment, they'll only give me a day's worth) I had downstairs, and taking them. I obsessed for hours, before taking them. Straight away afterwards, I felt stupid. Ironically, given how close to death I came and my last post being my fair-well to you, because I thought I hadn't taken enough to kill me, and felt like an amateur. An amateur at suicide attempts, I wonder at what point I stopped considering myself that. That's sad.

But anyway, I called the crisis team because I felt so bloody stupid and then I vaguely remember paramedics and waking up in intensive care in Hull a few days later, not able to breathe or talk because I had been intubated. The thing about the aftermath of an overdose for me is it's a really confusing time. I feel horrific for the fact I almost succeeded in entering the earth in a  literal sense, purely for the effect it would have on my family, especially Ginge. I feel even worse for the fact that I 'failed' summat. I don't fail.

I'm exhausted, this has really wiped me out. I couldn't walk until today 'cause of the meds giving me muscle fatigue but I can just about stumble out for a fag now. I'll write summat more interesting soon, I just felt like I was lying by not writing owt. Goodnight.

Friday, 7 December 2012

This isn't a friendship, a game or a lifestyle.

Anorexia. Bulimia. And every other form of eating disorder. These aren't your friends, they're not even like the sodding person next door that you just nod a hello at every now again; they're mental illnesses, killer diseases. And so fuck this Ana/Mia cutesy-cutesy bullshit, personifying a killer disease by giving it a pretty name, talking about Ana leaving you and Mia making you weak, or whatever. Good old Ana, boo on that Mia. These are mental illnesses with the highest fatality rate of any other mental illness, no less. I know how different the desires of the disease can be from those of your true self, if you can still hear it whispering in the back of you mind, but let's be serious for a fucking second, OK? There's a reason they don't call cancer a cutesy name, do you know why? Can you guess from the theme of this paragraph? Because it's a fucking killer disease.

So piss right off with your Ana/Mia bullshit. This isn't a friendship, a game or a lifestyle. It's a disease. If you go on an 'Ana diet' and really want to be a size fucking zero, if you beg for Ana/Mia to come rescue you, you truly have no idea of the horrors of the illness. If eating a low amount of calories makes you feel good, if that's your lifestyle, you're clueless. Lucky you.

This is more aggressive than my usual style, I realise. I'm not opening this up for discussion, I don't want to hear your reasonings and excuses, not until they start calling AIDS 'Ada' and discussing the best places/ways to get it, or to progress your preliminary HIV to that stage, because you're wrong. In roughly 6 months, I've known two girls die of Anorexia. One in summer, one last night. I knew them. I didn't read about them- there are thousands more to be read about- I'm talking about girls I knew in real life, albeit from hospital, girls I breathed the same air as. Gone.

The only way to win with Anorexia is to die from it. There aren't any losers, just the winners- those cold corpses- and those who forfeited- clawed their way away from the disorder and chose to live. You can let go, take yourself out of the race, the eternal quest for thinness. You can choose to live.... or you keep trying to win, and eventually you do. You die. There are two ways out of Anorexia. And I have no idea what to do right now.

Wednesday, 5 December 2012

Cold weather and baby steps.

I hate the cold. There are few parts of my body that it doesn't kill. My fingers and toes are purple, my joints are crumbling and my skin isn't too great a fan, either. Living in England, rain I can handle. Grey weather in 'summer'... that's ok, too. I should really be able to cope with the cold too, it comes every bloody year (and for a lot of the year, tropical we are not), but as soon as Raynaud's season comes, so does my whinging.

The medication for it makes me faint and dizzy, so it's a bit of a trade off- I had to come off it last year 'cause I was fainting left right and centre, but now I'm not at uni and spending all day doing fuck all, why the hell not add fainting in a few times? Give me summat to do, like. I'm so bored and so isolated, 'cause I still can't get out of the house without Ginge, although I did manage to get into my CPN's car yesterday. After a coupla panic attacks, but still. Baby steps.

Speaking of yesterday, my CPN took me for an ECG and bloods. The ECG was fine, they always make me giggle 'cause they're so softly-softly as they explain the amount of clothing you have to take off/undo for one, never assuming that I've had so many that I could do it myself if they let me loose with the machine and the stickers and the wires and all that balls. The bloods were quite funny though, apparently my veins are easy to find, but full of air, I shot a vial a good metre purely from the air being released. I was excited when I saw it go, 'cause I presumed my blood had gone squirting out like a tacky slasher film, but sadly not.

I don't have any great insights today, just that I HATE COLD WEATHER and being underweight is making it even worse. I've managed to reign in my weight loss, maintain and not lose, but that means I'm still a while off the target of a BMI of 17, making shit-all progress to get up there. Baby steps, baby steps, baby steps.